Bella's Guitar
by AmandaForks
Summary: Nominee "BEST HUMOR" & "BEST ROMANCE" 2013 Non-Canon Awards. With tough love from Billy and better parenting by Charlie, Bella recovers from E.'s loss and falls for sweetheart Jacob. But first she gets road rash, awkward sex ed lectures, bad advice from Quil, & a crash course in violence from Leah. And she writes comically angsty songs. So flippin' funny & tenderly sweet. A novel.
1. Chapter 1

**BELLA'S GUITAR**

_Set during NM after Edward leaves. Jake has not phased yet. Canon date would be Jan. 24, 2006._

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note:<em>

_Welcome._

_Bella's Guitar_ is a full-length novel. The plot: Bella falls for Jacob. Who wouldn't?

But that's not all. This novel comes complete with themes and symbolism, multi-generational plot arcs, at least three sub-plots, a portrait of a town, and a bunch of irreverent literary allusions to make book nerds like myself laugh. Oh, and there are comically angsty songs that Bella writes on her guitar. What I'm saying is that this is a piece of writing I have worked seriously hard on because I want to provide you with kick-ass reading material.

Full disclosure: there will be no hot werewolf sex in Jacob's garage by Chapter Two. Sorry. Not that there's anything wrong with hot werewolf sex in Jacob's garage. In any garage, really._ Mmm, mmm._ I'm just saying that this novel takes its time letting the characters build strong connections with each other.

So if you're looking for a novel (a pretty fucking funny one, if I do say so), then you might like this one. Thank you for reading!

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight, its recognizable situations, and its characters. I am not profiting from this work of fan fiction. Rated M for language, themes, and sexual situations.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Bella's Guitar<em>**

**Chapter One**

**"The Gift"**

One Saturday toward the end of January, as Bella was chewing her way through an obligatory bowl of cereal—gotta eat _something_, she supposed—Charlie took a seat across from her and pushed his coffee cup from side to side for a bit. Behind him, through the window, snow fell wetly in the yard and melted in the soggy grass. It was cold, but not cold enough for the snow to stick.

"Harrumph," said Charlie. He flipped the paper open, then back to the front page. He made a few more throat-clearing sounds. It was early still, and since he'd had the day off from work yesterday, he really hadn't used his voice in almost thirty-six hours. "Hawphhh..."

Bella kept chewing. She ate because Charlie would notice if she didn't. Mechanically lifting the spoon to her lips, she watched the red and black square pattern on her plaid, wool shirt cuff approach and recede. Up and down went the shirt. Big and small went the squares. _Huh,_ she thought, _it's like my arm is feeding my body even though my mind doesn't care. Stupid arm._

"So," began Charlie at last. He spoke quietly, in the kind of voice hikers use to avoid startling flighty wildlife. "You, uh, gonna be hanging out with Jacob again today?"

Bella looked up. "Huh?"

"Jacob. You gonna see him today?"

"Oh," said Bella. "Yeah. Yeah, I am." For a moment there, she wondered if her father was on to her. Had he somehow found out about the motorcycles? She and Jake had been working on them for over a week now.

"Well, that's real good," Charlie continued. "You seem a little better lately."

"I guess." It seems he wasn't about to ground her. What was this about then?

"So," Charlie began again, then stopped. He looked at her bowl of cereal. "You about done?"

She looked down. How long had the bowl been empty? Had she been shoveling air into her mouth for the past five minutes?

"Yeah," she blinked. "Done."

Charlie took her bowl and put it in the sink. "Come 'ere," he said, and strode into the living room. Reaching beside his recliner, he lifted up a scuffed brown guitar with a green plastic bow around the fretboard. "Merry Christmas," he said. He held it out to her, but his eyes were trained on the coffee table, as if he didn't want to see her reaction.

She stood there with a little pucker in her brow. "Ch—Dad, it's January."

He looked at her.

"I mean, um, thanks?" She grasped the instrument around the neck like she might have held a dead goose and sat down on the couch with it.

"I know it's January, Bells." He ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. "I gave this to you for Christmas, but you—well, I thought it might help with—I guess you weren't ready."

_Christmas..._ Bella thought. _I think I forgot about that. Did I give him a present? Oh, crud..._

Bella picked at the bow with her fingernails. It made a whispery, scratchy sound against the strings. "I don't know how to play the guitar, Dad."

"Neither did I," said Charlie.

He turned away for a moment, and in the wintry light that highlighted his profile as he looked out the window, Bella noted that there were a few more white hairs in his mustache than she remembered from before. Before Edw—before _he_ left. She gripped her stomach as the pain snarled within her.

"You know, after your mother left...with you...I was pretty messed up," said Charlie. "For a long time." He heaved a sigh and flicked a finger toward the mantle. Among the many framed photos there, including almost all of Bella's school pictures since kindergarten, Bella saw the picture of the people she knew were Charlie's parents. Two gray-haired people on the porch steps of a single story brick house. "You remember your grandma?" Charlie continued. "She gave me this." And he gestured to the guitar now balanced awkwardly across Bella's lap.

"This was Grandma's?"

"Yeah, she wasn't a big singer, just played some stuff for the kids in Sunday school before she got sick. Said she wanted me to have it after things ended with Renee."

He took a sip of his coffee.

Bella still wasn't sure how this applied to her.

"I wrote some songs," Charlie continued. "God, they were horrible. Horrible songs. But after a while, I felt better about things. I thought maybe you could, you know..." He waved at the guitar again while Bella stared at him.

"You wrote songs?" she finally asked.

"Yeah."

"About Mom?"

"Yeah, some of them. Okay, most of them. It was cathartic."

She kept staring.

"Cathartic," said Charlie again. "It means—"

"I know what it means, Dad. I just—you think I should write songs?"

Charlie got up and walked into the hallway. She could hear the quiet clicks as he secured his gun holster to his side. When he returned, he was stuffing his arms into his uniform parka. His face was red. "Okay," he said, "bad idea, maybe. I just thought it might help." He turned toward the door. "I'll be back around six tonight."

Bella stood up then and followed him to the front of the house. She held the guitar stiffly at her side. "Wait," she said.

He turned to her, his hand on the doorknob.

"Um, thanks."

Charlie may have smiled a bit beneath his mustache. "You're welcome," he said, and stepped out into the cold.

Bella carried Charlie's coffee mug to the sink and rinsed it out. Then she squirted some dish soap onto a rag and washed the mug, her cereal bowl, and her spoon. She set them in the drying rack and wiped her hands on an old yellow towel that had probably been there, she thought, since Renee.

Back in the living room, she picked up the guitar. She turned it over; she turned it from left to right. _Which hand held the neck part,_ she wondered, _and which hand did the strumming?_ She passed her fingers over the wiry strings.

_Twang._

_Tring._

_Twaiiiiinnnggg._

This guitar sounded awful.

Of course it was awful. _She_ was awful. She was so awful that Edward had had to go away and leave her. The pain in her stomach started up again. No way was she going to sing about what had happened to her. Every song on the radio sent her into a tailspin of heartache. Her fingers began to shake, so she set the guitar back down on the couch and clutched her sides.

_How can it be as if he never existed,_ she thought, _when every moment reminds me of his loss?_ Each breath felt like sand filling her lungs. She pulled her legs up under her and curled against the arm of the couch.

Eventually, the ringing of the phone prompted her to get up.

She shuffled into the kitchen, snagging the toe of her sock on the corner of the refrigerator. As she kicked her foot loose, she knocked her knee into the cabinet with a loud thump.

"Augh!" she gasped as she lifted the receiver. "Er, hello?" she spoke again.

"Bella?" said a familiar voice.

"Yes, this is Bella. Wait—Mike?"

"Bella, aren't you coming in to work today?"

_Oh, no!_ Bella's eyes shot to the calendar, and then the clock. She was already twenty minutes late.

"Oh, Mike, I'm so sorry. I lost track of time."

"Well, hurry up!" Mike said. "I've already told my mom you were in the stock room, and then in the bathroom. I don't think I can cover for you much longer."

"Shoot! I'm sorry. I'll be there in ten minutes!"

She scrambled upstairs to brush her teeth. As she rushed back through the living room to grab her keys, she avoided looking at the guitar on the couch.

* * *

><p>Bella parked her red beast of a truck half a block away from Newton's Outfitters so the rumbling of the engine wouldn't tip Mrs. Newton off to her late arrival. She ran past the pizza place and over the grubby asphalt lot of the outfitter store. It would have seemed that she could get through the parking lot unscathed—she knew she had to keep her eyes peeled for tripping hazards since she was running so fast—but nevertheless she seemed to splash through the deepest parts of every puddle along the way. By the time she jogged up to the back door, her flat-soled Converse low-tops had soaked through, leaving her feet, ankles, socks, and the bottoms of her jeans a muddy, chilled mess.<p>

Mike held open the door for her, looking back over his shoulder. "Damn, girl," he whisper-hissed. "You took forever." He handed her a green smock and helped her tie it on.

"Thanks, Mike, you're the be—Eek!" Bella squealed as Mike slapped a wet paper towel over her face. "What the heck?"

"I told my mom you were sick in the bathroom. You should look sweaty."

"Okay?"

"Here, shelve these." Mike thrust a heavy cardboard box full of Olympic Peninsula trail guide booklets into her arms and skittered through the curtain out onto the sales floor.

Bella followed, hoisting the box onto her hip as best she could and walking a bit sideways under its weight. She slumped on the floor in the book section and tried to figure out where to place the trail guides. _Did these things have an author? Should I file under "O" for Olympic Peninsula?_ A quick scan of the shelves proved unhelpful. _Crud. Every one of these books is about the Olympic Peninsula, and this whole bookcase is "O."_ Bella leaned over the box and dug toward the bottom. Maybe a packing slip would give her some kind of store-display clue.

"Oh, sweetie, don't barf in the box!" hollered Mrs. Newton. Bella looked up to see her striding toward her from the cash registers.

"What? No, I'm fine," mumbled Bella.

"Mike told me you were sick." Mrs. Newton knelt beside her and put a hand on Bella's forehead. "Well, you don't have a temperature," she said, "but your skin's really clammy. Are you sure you feel well enough to work?" Mrs. Newton cocked her head to one side, peering into Bella's eyes.

_She looks like a curious chicken,_ thought Bella. _And she's always pecking at me._ Bella tried to figure out if Mrs. Newton was asking because she was concerned about her health, or concerned about having a reliable worker. _Probably option B,_ she thought.

"I'm fine," she said again. "Really, I'm fine." Bella stretched the corners of her mouth back into what she hoped looked like a smile. It had been so long since she made a real one, at least outside of Jacob's garage.

Mrs. Newton nodded and stood up. "Alright then. Let me unpack these books. I'd like you to go back to the registers and find some posters that I left on the counter. Hang them in the front window, please, and then go clean the bathroom where you were sick. And make sure to scrub behind the toilet, sweetie. Whoever usually cleans the bathroom always seems to miss that spot."

_Yeah, that would be me._ Bella groaned inwardly as she trudged to the counter. She rustled through the drawers until she found some Scotch tape and then carted the posters toward the plate glass window up front.

Cold seeped through the glass. The window was a joke of a barrier between Bella and the endless winter outside. It was always warm in Phoenix. She remembered scooping some dusty, rocky soil into a tiny pot with an even tinier cactus on her last day at her old home. She had held it on her lap on the plane, a little piece of sun and home. It died. Just like her heart had bloomed and died here in Forks under the perpetual, drizzly gray light.

She unrolled the first poster: a picture of a mossy hiking trail, disappearing in the distance in a shady vale of ferns. _Like the trail where he left me._ She taped it to the cold, cold glass with trembling fingers.

A man walked through the door then, shaking the sloppy snow from his jacket, and inquired about flashlights. The air he brought in with him swirled around her soggy, shivering ankles. Her voice caught in her throat, but she managed to direct him toward Mike.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she tried to get some oxygen past the tightness in her chest and unrolled the next poster: a picture of the spreading, big leaf maples, their canopies shot through with the waning yellow light of late afternoon. _Like the time when he said, "Walk with me..."_ Her stomach began to feel hollow, suddenly and violently hollow.

The next one showed a silhouette of the pine tops at sunset, like the time Edward had carried her to the most extraordinary views imaginable, and all the land was spread out before her like the fairy tale of the future that had almost been hers. Then there was a picture of the gnarled roots of an ancient tree sheltering a spotted fawn. She remembered spending the night on the ground, curled tight, clenching every muscle in her body in an effort to deny the reality of her loss, to NOT let it wash over her. She had lost her shoes, and her feet were cold and bleeding, and she lay there in the dirt smelling the rust of her _self_ that had once seemed so special to him, but which had lost its appeal in the end. Night had poured over her like a flood.

Every image she unrolled seemed designed to stab her; she tried to avert her eyes as she plastered the reminders of her magical time with one timeless, magical boy to the icy window. Before her were the lush photos of spring and summer in the forest of her love, and beyond the transparent divider of glass was the reality of her life in Forks now: the gray asphalt, the gray skies, the salty wind that tore at her hair and thrust her breath back down her throat.

The last poster, naturally, was the worst: a field of wildflowers, blue lupine and tiny white lilies. She remembered the diamond rainbow of Edward's skin, his secret radiance that he shared with her. They had pressed their foreheads together, breathing the same air, and the love between them had become real.

That particular poster was rather messily taped to the window as the hole in her chest flared like a super nova and she hurried to the restroom, locking the door behind her.

_Why? Why? Why!_ She slid down the wall and keeled over on the cold tiles. Her whole body shook, and her mouth stretched and gnashed with soundless wailing. _Why...?_ Her face began to slide a little on the tile as she trembled, and she realized that tears and snot were pooling beneath her.

_This wouldn't be happening,_ she managed to think, _if I hadn't seen Edward in Port Angeles._ Ever since that night when she'd seen a vision of him as she streaked through the wet streets on the back of some strange man's motorcycle, she'd been crazed with the hope of seeing him again. And opening her eyes to look for his likeness meant letting in other sights, too—sights she'd looked past or through for months during her zombie stage. Those cruel nature posters had floored her, literally, because she'd been stupid enough to look at them.

Her consciousness had unfurled from the shell of her half-broken mind and inhabited her senses again. She was starting to_ feel_ again, and it hurt so bad. Maybe this was what soldiers felt when they've been carried from a battlefield unconscious and they wake up in a hospital tent to find that their legs have been blown off—only in her case, it was her heart that had been shot to hell.

A long time later, she got up and cleaned the bathroom. She scrubbed behind the toilet. Then she splashed some water on her face and looked in the mirror. _I look like a vampire,_ she thought. Her skin was too pale, her eyes sunken and rimmed with red. Somehow, the image of herself like this sustained her. It was a small satisfaction after everything that had happened. She unlocked the door and headed out.

Mike was waiting for her in the hallway. "You've been in there a while, are you—" he stopped. "Shit, Bella, you look like a corpse."

She froze—did he _know?_—while Mike jabbered on about how she must really be sick. When he ducked into the employee break room, she finally let out a breath. Mike came back with their jackets. Tossing hers to her, he explained that they were both free to go since business was pretty slow. "I clocked you out," he said. "Come on."

Bella tried to put on her jacket, but her arms wouldn't go in the sleeves. She realized it was because she was shivering so bad.

Mike grabbed her hand and led her back to the sales floor. "Geez, your fingers are like ice," he complained. "You know what's wrong with you?"

_Uh, my soulmate told me our love was dead and abandoned me in the woods, and now the only thing that keeps me going is the hope that I'll have another hallucination of his face and voice, and if that makes me insane, then I'm ready to embrace mental illness?_ Of course, she didn't say that out loud.

"Your problem is that you still don't know how to dress for Forks. You've been here, what, a year? And you don't even have a decent hat. Look at this."

He rustled through a bin on the clearance shelf and pulled out something that looked like it belonged on a gnome. "Try this," he said, stuffing it onto her head. Then he spun her toward the mirror.

The felted wool cap had a ridiculous tassel on top. It was red, and it had two long, braided wool cords that tied under her chin.

"I don't know, Mike," she began, but he wouldn't listen.

"It looks good," he said. "You should wear something bright. And something _warm_," he emphasized.

"But—"

"It's already on clearance, and with your employee discount it's another twenty percent off. That's like, four dollars, really."

"Well..."

"Or you could get one of these." Mike pulled his own hat out of the inner pocket of his parka and jammed it on his head. It looked like a baseball cap, but with faux fur lining and huge ear flaps. "Nice, eh?"

"You look like you've got a dead platypus on your head."

Mike laughed. "Bella Swan, did you just crack a joke?"

She smiled a little, a real smile.

"Mom, Bella is taking this hat!" Mike hollered as they headed for the door. Mrs. Newton waved them out.

Mike walked her to her truck, even though it was half a block away and the air had cooled enough now for the snow to start piling up on the ground.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked as she unlocked the cab.

Mike gave her a look that must have rubbed off on him from Jessica, a look that said, _Well, duh!_ "We're friends, right?"

"Yeah..." Bella braced herself for some awkward flirting, maybe an oh-so-not-casual invitation to grab some waffles at the diner, but it never came.

"That's why." He smiled. "See you at school."

Bella watched him go. _Friends,_ she thought. _Wow, I have two of those._ Then she started up the engine and headed for La Push to see her other one.

* * *

><p>On the way out to La Push, Bella stopped at home to grab her backpack. Jacob had mentioned that he was falling behind in school because he spent so much time on the bikes last week. So they had planned a study session. She didn't want their fathers to limit their hang out time because of neglected homework.<p>

Slinging her backpack onto the bench seat in the cab, Bella climbed back into her truck and swung the heavy door shut with a bang. As she pulled away from her house and headed out of town, she blasted the heater.

Sure, it was winter, but lately she felt cold all the time. Crying on the floor in Newton's bathroom hadn't helped; now she was exhausted, chilly, and probably dehydrated from all the snot she'd oozed. She had considered, when stopping for the backpack, calling Jacob to cancel their plans and then crawling into bed for a nap, but she figured she'd just shiver her way into another nightmare.

The coldness she felt wasn't like the cool, soothing balm of Edward's arms. It was a lonely cold, but the word lonely didn't even begin to describe it. She felt like one of those little piles of stones she'd seen in a _National Geographic_ article about the tundra: a person-shaped marker along a trail where something wonderful had happened once, long ago, and now she was ready to topple over.

The snowy woods and fields rolled past. Every snowflake was an icy tear, millions and millions of them gathering on the ground. She felt like Jane Eyre must have felt running from the heartbreak of Mr. Rochester's unavailability (he was married, surprise!) over the desolate moors, only Edward had been the one to run away, and her humanity wasn't exactly a madwoman in the attic. Okay, so she felt like Mr. Rochester must have felt when he was abandoned by Jane Eyre as she ran away over the moors, except that she, Bella, was a girl and Mr. Rochester was a man, a kind of old man, which was a little creepy, except that Edward was old, too. Wait, Edward was supposed to be Jane. Okay, so she felt like Mr. Rochester and Edward was Jane Eyre, but with better hair. Yet she, Bella, was the one who was plain-looking like Jane, except that she wasn't a governess, and there really was no parallel for little Adele in this situation unless you counted Alice, who was sort of bouncy, but not the daughter of a French whore. _Holy crow, my head hurts._

Before she knew it, the woods gave way to the lawns and homes of La Push. Jacob was out in his yard chopping wood with his friend Quil when she pulled up in front of the Blacks' small, red house. She slid out of the cab, backpack slung over one shoulder, and shuffled toward them over the finely dusted snow.

"Check this out, Bella," Jacob called, lifting the axe.

"Be careful," she said. She knew Jake had some kind of crush on her, but she'd feel pretty bad if he chopped his foot off putting on a show for her. That kid was almost as clumsy as she was.

He just smiled and hefted the axe a little higher. He swung it behind him, rotating his torso and rocking back on his rear foot. Following the blade's weight, his arms stretched up and his heels lifted off the ground at the apex of his swing; she watched the muscles of his shoulders flex wider, then narrow, as his body lengthened with the pull of the axe above him. Then his hands slid together at the base of the polished wood handle, and the axe head fell with a crack into the seasoned pine on the stump.

It was a clean split. Bella stared at the two halves rocking on the ground, the creamy recent growth and the soft red of the heartwood splayed open in the snow.

Jacob tossed his long hair out of his eyes and grinned at her. His chest rose and fell with his breath, puffing white in the cold air. Then Quil set another log on the stump and he did it again. And again.

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

Was this supposed to impress her? Because it was kind of working. He was suddenly...graceful. _He's sort of beautiful,_ thought Bella. _And both his feet are still attached._

"Watch this," Jake said as Quil set an even larger log on the splitting stump. "Now I'll put a little effort into it."

_CRACK!_

The two halves of the wood flew about ten feet apart across the yard.

Quil smirked at Bella's slack stare. "Jake's finally hit puberty," he explained.

"Shut up, Quil. You can't even lift this axe."

"No, it's true. Last week you were all complaining about Billy needing firewood, and it took you an hour to chop a few pieces, plus you banged up your shins."

Bella watched as Jake lifted the axe again.

"It's just kind of awesome to finally get the hang of it," he said.

"Yeah," said Quil. "I think you got a grip on that handle right around the time Bella started hanging out with us."

"Shut up, Quil," Jake said again. Bella wondered why his face was turning red.

"I mean, you used to have to whack that wood over and over, but since Bella came around you just need one good stroke to—"

"SHUT UP, Quil!"

"Okay, okay." Quil winked at Bella, who was pretty red now, too. "I gotta go home anyway." He ambled past her.

She kept her back to the truck as he walked by, turning to keep the front of her body toward him, because she had a bad feeling he might try to pinch her butt if she wasn't careful. He'd done that before.

"Quil's kind of a perv," she said when he had gone.

"Yeah, sorry about him. His mom pays me to be his friend."

Jacob gathered the stove lengths in his arms and inclined his head toward the house. Bella followed him inside. _Ah, warmth._ Jake opened the wood stove and shoved some of the wood inside the sparking, hot glow. Bella could feel the muscles in her shoulders and neck softening. She hadn't even realized how stiffly she'd been holding herself. She peeled off her coat and set her backpack on the kitchen table while Jake headed for the refrigerator. He came back with jars of peanut butter and jelly and a loaf of bread and began slapping together some sandwiches.

"I like your hat," he said.

"What? Oh, it's new."

"Well, it's nice. It's pretty." He kept his eyes on the sandwiches, but Bella was fairly sure that what he meant was, _you're _pretty.

She whipped off the hat and stuffed it into the bottom of her backpack. "Homework," she said.

Jacob helped her with her math and she walked him through creating an outline for his history paper. She watched him scribble notes in his too-large, sloppy handwriting and thought about how she really didn't need this crush from him. It was going to mess up their friendship, and she needed to be around him right now. He was so cheerful that he made her forget things. Forget the gaping hole in her chest. It had only been a week or so since she showed up with the motorcycles, but already she felt herself becoming dependent on him. She knew she shouldn't, because she could never return his feelings _in that way,_ but she couldn't help herself. It was a relief not to ache all the time.

Another worrying thought was the way she'd noticed the motion of his body in the yard. How could anybody make chopping wood look so...fascinating? _Yes, that's all it was. I wish I could be more coordinated like him, that's all._ And why did she have to notice how glossy his hair was as it fell over his shoulder and brushed softly across the pages of his textbook? So straight and black and shiny. Surely she was only noticing this because it was unfair for a guy to have better hair than her.

Billy rolled past, nodding in her direction. "Bella," was his simple greeting. She heard him opening the fridge and rustling around.

"Jake?" he called from the kitchen. "Where's that macaroni salad Sue sent over?"

Jacob looked up sheepishly. "Sorry," he said. "I ate it this morning."

"What about the chili from last night?"

"Ate it."

"The chicken casserole?"

"Ate it."

"How about the cornbread from—"

"I ate that, too."

Billy rolled out of the kitchen and took a hard look at Jacob. "Hmm," he said.

"Want a sandwich?"

Billy just rolled into the living room.

Shoving his history homework aside, Jacob opened a notebook and a severely bent paperback copy of _Hamlet._ "Last assignment," he said. "Can you help me paraphrase this?"

"The soliloquy?" she asked.

"Gesundheit."

It was the soliloquy. Bella tried to explain Hamlet's state of mind.

"It's like he's hit rock bottom. He can't do it any more. So he's wondering if he should even bother, you know? He thinks maybe things would be easier if he just _stopped being._ That's the 'to be or not to be' part."

"Like suicide?"

"I guess."

Jake seemed horrified.

"He's lost someone he loved," she continued. "And no one understands him. It's criminal, really. I mean, some one is getting away with murder, and he can't seem to do anything about it. Everyone thinks he's crazy. Sometimes _he_ thinks he's crazy. His weird behavior has alienated his friends and he—"

Bella started feeling cold all over again. She tried to keep talking. "He feels powerless. And scared." The pages started to swim beneath her eyes but she forced herself to focus on the part about shuffling off "this mortal coil."

"It's like, it's like..." She had to take a deep breath. _Crap._ That feeling she'd had in Newton's bathroom was coming back. _This is not about HIM. I'm not thinking about HIM._ She made herself concentrate. "He feels like mortality is constricting, like a coil, or a fist, squeezing you. And he wants to shake it off. But then there's the 'undiscovered country,' and the fear of the unknown has him frozen between the choice of living, which is so hard—" her voice squeaked—_get a grip, Bella_— "and dying, which is scary..."

Her words trailed off as she noticed Billy had come around the corner and was looking at her oddly. Jake, too.

"Bella," he said softly, "he can't just give up."

"But he feels _really bad,_" she insisted._ Why couldn't she breathe?_

"No," Jake said, leaning toward her.

"Yes!" She practically shrieked. Jake was making her upset. Why was he sitting so close? "He lost someone he loved! No one understands!" _Oh God, this was not happening._ She grabbed a pencil and started to underscore the important lines in Jake's book. _Breathe. Move the pencil. Breathe. Pencil._

"I understand," said Jake.

"No one can understand. That's why Shakespeare wrote it this way, it's why he's talking to himself and not some other character." _Breathe. Move the pencil. Eyes on the book._

"I lost my mom," he said. "I understand. It's okay."

Bella felt, rather than understood, that something big was coming at her. She shot out of her chair so fast it clattered on the tile. "I—water," she said, and dashed into the kitchen. She leaned her head against a cupboard and realized that the weird shape she had sensed coming toward her had been Jacob, trying to hug her. With shaky hands, she filled a glass of water from the sink. She willed herself to swallow some of it. Her throat felt so tight. Then she just tried to breathe in and out, slower and slower, and she looked out the window at the falling snow. Some of it was gathering on the hood of her truck now.

Jake had hugged her before. It was nice. She...liked...his hugs. He was always so nice and warm. But she could not let him, could not let anyone, touch her right now, or she would come apart. She rubbed a hand across her cheek. It was wet.

She had seen Edward in Port Angeles and now all this, this _feeling_ was happening to her again. She thought about his face, the sad way he had looked at her in the foggy night. It helped a little. If she was going to feel, to see, then she would think of him.

When she was able to leave the kitchen, she saw that Jacob had put away all their homework and was now flopped on the couch in the living room with Billy. "Want to watch _Iron Chef_?" he called.

Bella sank gratefully onto the couch beside him. How did he always know what she needed?

It was dark outside when the ringing of the phone woke her. She lifted her face from Jacob's shoulder as he smiled down at her. _How did I get here?_ she wondered. _And had that been his hand in my hair?_ His hands were at his sides now, innocently enough.

"Bella?" Billy called. "Your dad's on the phone."

"Oh, crud," she said, stumbling around the coffee table. "What time is it?"

"It's six-thirty," Billy said.

She must have slept for a couple hours. _With no nightmares..._ But now Charlie would be wondering about dinner. She picked up the receiver.

"Dad?"

Charlie told her not to worry about dinner, that he'd called in a couple of pizzas and would be bringing them over to the Blacks' house. Then he asked her to put Billy back on the phone. She could hear one end of the conversation as she returned to the couch.

"Yeah," Billy said. "Bring it with you."

While his dad was on the phone, Jake took the opportunity to whisper with her about the bikes.

"Almost ready," he said into her ear. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Really?" she looked up at him, half-hoping, half-dreading that he would lean close to her again and whisper more.

But he just nodded. He got up to help Billy set the table, and a short while later, Bella looked up at the sound of the door opening.

"It's really coming down out there!" said Charlie, knocking the snow from his boots onto the mat. He balanced two boxes of pizza in his right hand, and, to Bella's horror, he held that brown guitar in his left.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note:<em>

_Thanks for reading. Please leave a review and share your opinion. I appreciate all comments and will write to thank you. Dude, and not just one of those "Hi, thanks," notes. I care. And I get a lot of awesome ideas and critiques from readers, so you all are like a team I write with. Thank you!_


	2. Chapter 2

Hi, Readers!

This "chapter" is a place holder. I combined the text of the stuff formerly known as Chapter Two with Chapter One to make a better, more developed Chapter One. So please hit the "next" button to move forward. You shall miss no story line because of this "blank" chapter. It's all under control!

Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3

Hi again, Readers,

This is another place holder chapter. I combined the text of what used to be Chapter Three with the stuff from the old Chapters One and Two to make a better Chapter One. Confused? So sorry. But please move on to Chapter Four. And I swear, there will be no more weird edits for you!

Thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**"Sing Along"**

Charlie and Billy had been knocking back the Vitamin R for an hour or so after dinner, and Jake had taken the empty pizza boxes out to the trashcan in the snow, when Charlie decided that the time had come to torture his daughter. Or at least, that's what it felt like to Bella.

"Okay, Bells," he said, rocking forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. "Bring me the guitar."

_Crap._ Said instrument had been leering at Bella from the corner of the living room all evening. Propped against the wall, it squatted there like a troll in the shadows. She shuffled warily toward it over the Blacks' matted brown carpet and stood there, thinking, _Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. He's really gonna make me do this._

She stood there so long that Charlie said, "It's not going to bite you, kid. No teeth."

Billy coughed suddenly. Bella flushed and grabbed the stupid thing around its neck. She handed it to her father.

"Alright then." Charlie settled the curved body of the guitar across his thigh. "I sat and fiddled with this thing after work, and I think I got it tuned up." He eyed the fretboard, arranged his fingers into a claw-like position, and brushed the thick, short nails of his right hand over the strings.

The chord vibrated warmly in the small room. Charlie plucked the strings one at a time, so that Bella could hear all six tones individually, and then strummed the chord again: a bright, cheery thrum.

_Wow,_ thought Bella. _So much better than this morning._ She sat down on the carpet at Jake's feet in front of the couch.

Charlie smiled at Billy. "Still sounds pretty good, eh?"

"It does."

Bella noticed how much Billy's grin looked like Jake's.

"Only problem is," said Charlie, "I can only remember the one chord."

"Well, shit," laughed Billy. He sent Jake into his bedroom with instructions to unearth a certain cardboard box from the closet.

"What's all this?" asked Jake when he returned.

"Bunch of your mom's books," replied Billy.

They sifted through the box until Billy pulled out a small, discolored mess of paper bound in a cracked, plastic spiral.

"Chord charts," said Billy, tossing it onto Charlie's lap. "And Kumbaya lyrics and stuff."

Jake reached for the book. "I remember..." he said slowly. He flipped through the pages. Bella saw that the songs all looked like poems with extra letters written on top of the lines of words.

"I'll show you how to read the chord changes later," said Charlie. "We gotta start small."

For the next hour or so, Bella forgot about Jake and his weird crush, forgot about the bikes, and school, and her lack of friends, and her always-almost-getting-fired job. She forgot about the knowing looks Billy kept throwing at her when no one else was looking, his eyes simultaneously compassionate and condemning. She forgot about the dark forest where she shivered on the ground for one night, and where she'd shivered in her dreams ever since. She even forgot, for a short time, about the hole in her chest and the boy who had blown it open.

In the soft, yellow light from the Blacks' outdated dining room chandelier, she listened to her father describe the parts of the guitar, what to call the strings, how to hold it, strum it, pull the sound from the wood so that it throbbed clear of the body. She saw him leaning over the instrument, talking to her but looking at it, and she realized that there was a part of him that felt like she felt about her books. A part of him that treasured something beautiful.

"Okay, now you try," said Charlie, holding it out to her.

Bella could only shake her head, a quick flutter from side to side, like a trout flashing away upstream. She'd mess it up for sure.

"Maybe later then," said Charlie. But he smiled at her.

"If Bella's going to learn this," said Jake, "maybe we could do it together." He looked at her encouragingly. "Dad? Where's mom's guitar?"

Billy's face fell. "It's gone. I'm sorry, son."

Jake looked confused.

"I sold it," said Billy. "Pawned it, really."

Despite his height and his long arms and legs that flopped all over the place, Jake looked suddenly like that third grader again who'd lost his heart. "But why?" His voice sounded pinched.

Bella almost put her hand over his, but she held back. She was a little ashamed of the relief she felt that he wasn't going to be having music lessons with her.

"Oh, Jake," said his father. "I had to. Your sisters had started college. I couldn't let them down. It was around the time I got sick, and...well, you can't eat a guitar."

"Wish you'd 'a told me," said Charlie. "That was a fine instrument. Double-O Eighteen Martin, right?"

"Was a wedding gift from Sarah's parents." Billy turned to Jake. "It was gorgeous, and it was a part of her, but I could not feed you any longer, son, on government cheese."

"It's okay." Jake gave his father a little smile to show that he meant it. "I do remember the cheese. Shit was nasty."

"Watch your language, boy," Billy said, but he smiled, too, and rubbed his big hand in Jake's hair. "Alright, Charlie," he continued. "You brought this thing down here, now I want you to sing for Bella."

Charlie blanched.

"Come on, man, we talked about this. You gotta open up, too."

Charlie wrinkled up his forehead and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

"It's okay, Dad," Bella said. "You don't have to."

"Nope, now none of that," Billy interjected. "If you're having trouble remembering the songs, I could call Harry."

"God, no!" barked Charlie. "Alright, I'll sing."

Bella thought she heard her father mutter something like, manipulative bastard, but she wasn't sure.

"What songs?" asked Jake. "Like, cop songs? Ooh—fish songs?" He thrashed an air guitar and wailed, "And she's buy-i-ing a stairway...to salmon!"

"Not helping," said Charlie. "They were, uh, break up songs."

Bella stared at the carpet. _So, so embarrassing. Let's rehash our mutual pain, Dad. Then we'll both feel lots better._

"Oh," said Jake. Then he looked at Bella, red-faced and trying to hide behind her hair. "Oh!" he said again. "Oh..."

And this was why she could never date him. Even though he was so sweet to her, he was still two years younger and times like this just solidified the feeling that he was a little brother who knew way, way too much about her, thanks to the gossiping old ladies they had for fathers.

_Yep. Feeling better already, Dad. Good plan._

Charlie creased back a page with the chord charts. To Bella, they looked like grids with circles on them. He strummed a few more times, switching his fingers and strumming again. Bella could concede that it was pretty, the way the sound changed.

"Okay, uh," he said, "so Renee left, and I wrote some songs. That's about it, really."

"Come on, Charlie," prodded his friend. "At least name some of the songs. Christ, we all had to listen to 'em for a year or more."

"Yeah, uh..." _Strum, strum._ "I don't remember."

"I remember." Billy sounded perfectly cheerful. It seemed he was enjoying this a little too much. "Let's see, there was 'Lonely Cop Blues' and 'Can't Get Outta Bed Blues'..."

Bella couldn't help but interrupt. "This helped you feel _better_?"

Billy kept going while Charlie turned pinker and pinker. "There was 'Taking My Child Across State Lines'—that one was really sad—and 'What Am I Supposed to Eat Now?' and your follow-up song, 'How Do You Work This Damn Microwave?' Or maybe it was just called 'Damn Microwave.' Something about Stouffer's Lasagna..."

"Aw, Dad," said Bella.

"How do you remember all this?" Charlie grumbled.

"It's a gift. There was 'Stomp on My Heart, Why Doncha?'—kind of catchy—and 'Fine, Then, Don't Come Back.' Also I liked 'Empty House, OverFlowing Heart.' Oh, and 'T-boned on the Turnpike of Love.'"

"Okay," laughed Charlie. "You just made that last one up."

"Tell them about your hit single. You know, the one we all used to sing with you. Sarah helped you with the lyrics."

"Oh, yeah, that one. It's called, um," and here Charlie mumbled something unintelligible.

"Speak up," said Billy.

"It's called, well, 'Psycho Heartless Hippie Bitch.'"

Jake and Bella both shouted at once: "You wrote that with/about my _mother?_"

"Tough times," said Charlie. "Desperate measures."

There was no way Charlie could escape singing that one. Billy called Harry on the phone despite his friend's protests, and soon the whole Clearwater gang had trooped over.

"Found my tambourine," said Harry, helping himself to a beer from the fridge. He jingled the frivolous instrument with a mock-serious scowl on his face, then slapped it on his hip. His wife rolled her eyes. "And I found this." Harry handed a photograph to Charlie, whose eyes crinkled up at the corners when he saw it. Charlie passed it to Bella.

It was a photo of Charlie, Harry, Billy, and Sarah, here in the Blacks' living room on the same sagging couch where Jake sat now. Charlie held his guitar. They all held beers. The men looked younger, a little thinner, and Jake's mom wore some high-waisted purple pants that must have been stylish in the early 90s. Jake leaned over Bella's shoulder to look, too.

"Where's Sue?" he asked.

"I took the picture," she said. "And I made Harry put that awful tambourine behind his back."

"You're just jealous of my talent, woman," said Harry, and he jingled it again.

Charlie took the photo back and propped it carefully on the mantel above Billy's wood stove.

Bella remembered the Clearwaters from her long ago summer visits. And of course she knew Harry from his more recent stops at her father's house after fishing trips. He smiled at her as he eased his weight onto the couch next to Jake. Seth, now fourteen, bounced onto the couch on Jake's other side, clutching a can of Mountain Dew. Sue pulled one of the kitchen chairs into the living room and settled herself near the stove, where she could see Leah, who had greeted no one but instead had stretched the spiral cord of Billy's phone as far as it would go down the hall. She was talking to someone in a tense voice.

The Clearwater kids seemed so different from Bella. Leah was tall, had a good figure, and wore her long, thick, dark hair hanging loose and straight down her back. Bella knew they were the same age, but Leah appeared older. Her jeans showed the length and shape of her thighs, and the neck of her shirt opened enough to reveal a collarbone fine as a hawk's wing where a tiny gold chain twinkled. Bella bet that whoever was at the other end of that phone adored Leah. Who wouldn't? She doubted that she'd ever appear to anyone the way Leah appeared to her: confident, attractive, in control.

Nor was Seth some one she could relate to. He was like a puppy; if he _had_ been a puppy, he'd have been rolling at Jake's feet and wagging his tail in a giddy blur. Bella almost wished something bad would happen to him to dampen his mood. He kept saying, "Hey, Jake! Hey, Jake!" at the beginning of every utterance and wiggling so much that some of his soda splashed onto Bella's shoulder.

Jacob listened patiently to Seth, but he did wedge his long leg between the younger boy and Bella. It was a gesture that said, "I'm looking out for you," to Bella and, "Back off," to Seth. Bella let herself lean against his warm calf. That was okay, right? He was wearing jeans, and it wasn't like she was touching his thigh. _Oh crap, I thought about his thigh. He's like a brother,_ she reminded herself.

Billy wasn't taking any of Charlie's excuses about forgetting the lyrics to "Hippie Bitch." He flipped through the old songbook and found some scribbles in the back. "Sarah wrote it all down," he said.

"Well, God bless her," said Charlie. He took another swig of Rainier and scanned the page. "Here goes."

As Bella listened, she couldn't decide if she should be proud of her father for creating a song or horrified that he had written this about her mother. It was—_holy smokes_—it was pretty amazing. Pretty amazingly awful.

"Psycho, heartless, hippie bitch," sang Charlie. _Strum, strummy strum._ "Flighty, flakey, selfish witch." _Strum, strum._ And _rattle, rattle_ from Harry's tambourine.

The song had a kind of country music feel that matched Charlie's twangy voice. All the adults were nodding and grinning like kooks, and Seth and Jacob were exchanging glances that said, _These are our parents?_ Even Leah slunk back down the hall, still glued to the phone, and smirked at Charlie.

Leah's disdain bothered Bella. She half-wanted to say something like, "Hey, at least my dad plays a real instrument," but she was also half-afraid of the other girl.

"Your lovin' makes my motor run," Charlie sang. "You are the trigger to my gun."

_Oh, my GAWD._ Bella pulled a throw pillow from the couch and buried her face in it.

The song kept going and going. From the motion of Jacob's leg against her side, she suspected he was tapping his foot. _Traitor._

There were a lot of verses about the "dumb-ass shit," as Charlie phrased it, her mother had pulled. And "shit" rhymed with "twit," as Bella noticed in the next line. But these criticisms were easier to listen to than rhymes about "scratch my back" and "in the sack."

At last, Charlie returned to the chorus. Everyone but herself and Leah joined in with the ending: "You're a PSYCHOOOOOOOH, heartless hippie bitch!"

_BANG! BANG!_ went Harry's tambourine, and everybody laughed.

Bella heaved a sigh into the pillow. _Kill me now._ When she finally raised her face, the first eyes she met were those of Leah, who mouthed, _Your dad's a dork._

Shame blossomed across Bella's face. Then indignation. Bella was used to being overlooked, criticized. But not her dad. That was different. He was the Chief of Police! She still couldn't speak up to Leah, but she did point to the tambourine and raise one eyebrow. Leah rolled her eyes, but she looked away.

"Awesome," Jake whispered in her ear. He hugged her with his knees, and she let him.

* * *

><p>It was a long night. Charlie was prevailed upon to sing a few more songs. Billy and Harry kept congratulating him about getting his feelings out and putting it all behind him. Harry rattled and jingled his tambourine along with every song until Seth asked to play it, and then it was right next to Bella's head. She slumped against Jake's knee.<p>

She was seeing her father differently. As a guy with a talent, albeit a talent used for an excruciatingly embarrassing purpose. As a guy who had come out on the other side of a painful breakup with a sense of humor about it, even if that humor was at the expense of her mother. Could she ever look back on Edw—on_ his_ leaving her and _laugh_ about it with her friends? _Oh, no. No way._ She could see how writing songs had been good for Charlie, but that could never work for her. Her stomach churned at the thought.

Finally, Charlie noticed the pained expression on Bella's face and put the guitar down. That seemed to signal to everyone that it was time to go home. Sue and Jake began straightening up the room as the others moved to the kitchen, giving Bella some space.

"Hey," Charlie said, lowering himself to sit on the floor beside her. "You okay?"

"I guess." She noticed a frayed spot on the hem of her jeans. Most pants were too long for her and eventually got scuffed up beneath her heels as she walked. She picked at a few loose threads.

"I know it must be weird to hear things like that about your mother," he said. "Don't get me wrong; she's a good person. In her way. And you know I still...care about her. But when we divorced...well, that's how I felt at the time."

Bella thought about that. A lot of the things in Charlie's songs were true. Her mom did do some dumb-ass, er, _stuff._ She frowned at the idea of acknowledging it, though. Renee needed Bella to take care of her, not join with her father in criticizing her.

"Nobody's perfect," said Charlie.

_Edward is_, thought Bella.

"Some guys drink too much when something like that happens. Or they sleep around. Or quit going to work. Thank God your grandma gave me that guitar. I thought it was a piss-poor idea, but it helped."

Bella sighed.

"If I'd kept it all inside, just bottled up all these years, I'd be like some snail in its shell. Incapable of communicating with people, including you, my own daughter. And I'd never have gone on a date these sixteen years." He laughed. "I mean, the only females I'd see naked would be fish. That's just not natural."

Bella blushed and kept picking at her jeans.

"The not-dating part, I mean," clarified Charlie. "It's not natural to be alone for so long."

Harry hollered from the kitchen, "The fish part is not natural either, Charlie."

"Hey," said Billy. "Don't knock it."

There was an awkward silence. Then Seth said, "You guys are drunk!"

Bella groaned and hid her face in the pillow again.

"Okaaaay," said Sue. "Time to go."

The Clearwaters bundled up and said their goodbyes. Charlie and Bella put on their coats, too.

"Drive me home, Bells?" Charlie said.

"Sure."

Jake and Billy saw them to the door.

"I'll call you tomorrow," said Jake.

Outside, it had stopped snowing. The air was cold and clear. As Charlie and Bella drove home in the truck, the guitar on the seat between them, thousands of stars shone overhead in the black sky, so bright, and so far away.

* * *

><p>Please review. Thank you.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: THANK YOU to my subscribers and reviewers. My apologies for the long delay in updating. I am trying to post one chapter each weekend, but recently I had the flu. All better now!

**Chapter Five**

**"Lessons"**

Charlie put the guitar in Bella's lap as she sat on the couch after breakfast. She wrapped her hands awkwardly around the body the way a nervous person might hold a wiggly baby, and her father flipped through Sarah Black's old songbook. The wind, which had blown away most of the snow during the night, was dying down outside. Sunlight filtered through the white curtains of the living room and reflected off the crystals of snow on the windowsill. The icy glint reminded her of Edward, and her gasp was involuntary.

Charlie looked at her with narrowed eyes.

She returned her gaze to the instrument and squeezed it tightly against the pain in her middle. _Breathe, breathe._ Guitar lessons were not so bad. At least, not compared to thinking about...other things.

Charlie made Bella pluck the strings one at a time. Her thumb kept fumbling between the wires. Sometimes the guitar just went_ thuck_ instead of_ thrum_. She was also mystified as to why the lowest tones on the guitar were closest to the top when she held the guitar across her lap.

"Am I playing this upside down?" she asked. She tried to rotate the guitar so that the fretboard was on her right, but Charlie stopped her.

"No, no," he said. "That's just how it is."

_Well, that made no sense._

Charlie named the strings from lowest to the highest: E, A, D, G, B, E. Bella, still puzzled over why the low notes were on top, couldn't name the strings back to him when he asked.

"Think of it this way," he said. "Even A Doofus Gets Better Eventually."

Bella frowned.

"Not you, sweetie." Charlie ran a hand over his face and sighed. "Okay, try this," he said, indicating one of the chord charts.

Bella looked at the book but wasn't sure how to read it. She saw a box. Lines. Circles. It was labeled, "G major."

Charlie was making that claw shape in the air with his hand, twisting his wrist at an impossible angle as he tried to show her the finger position from her perspective. "Like this," he said, and it looked like his hand was having some sort of spasm. "You put your first finger here," he instructed, "and these are called frets..."

Bella remembered Hamlet saying something about that: "Though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me." If this guitar could talk, it would probably say the same thing to her. It was discouraging to know she was going to suck at this before she even got started. After all, why should this be any different from ballet lessons, or drawing class, or gym class, or that soccer team from second grade when she'd gotten a black eye by falling down on her own elbow?

Charlie moved to sit next to her on the couch. "Now put your second finger here..."

She sighed heavily. This was useless. It took a long time to position her hand, and the wires had a sproingy-ness to them that resisted her touch. Charlie urged her to press firmly, but it wasn't very comfortable.

"And your third finger..." Charlie re-angled her wrist so that she could reach the E string between the second and third frets. It was a stretch. Or a cramp. It was somewhere between a stretch and a cramp for her hand.

"Now strum," said her father.

She squeezed her left hand hard against the strings so that it wouldn't slip, and then she bent her neck over the guitar to see where to place her right hand. Charlie moved her fingers over the sound hole, and once she looked into it, she froze. It was a big black circle of emptiness pressed against her middle, right where she imagined her own Edward-hole to be. She was afraid to touch the strings. They lay across that gaping chasm like the spiderwebs of her own arms that were all she had to bind herself together when she ached, and she sat motionless on the couch, looking into the dark place where her love had been.

"Go on," said Charlie.

The ache flared up like a bonfire. She needed to breathe, but she couldn't. _No, no, no_! she told herself. _Don't freak out again!_

Charlie seemed to sense her difficulty, even though she kept her face down.

"Bella," he said gently. "Please try."

She knew he didn't just mean about the guitar. Her eyes were getting wet and she felt a little dizzy._ Oh, crap..._

"You've gotta make an effort, honey, because otherwise your mother—"

_STRUMMMMMM!_

That did it. The last time her father had mentioned Renee it was with the intention of sending her to Florida. She could not leave Forks. Her hand came down across the strings with the finality of a guillotine dropping, and the sound rang out into the house, as bright and sudden as a can of paint tipping over.

"Good!" said Charlie.

She could tell he was a little surprised. So was she. It sounded _beautiful._ And the best part, the part she could never have imagined, was that the vibration of the chord did something to her body. It thrummed inside her like a hummingbird, like a rainbow, like a big burst of sunlight, and it filled her up. She _echoed_ inside. The sound pulsated through her chest and stomach and for a moment, just until the chord died away, she _didn't ache._

She did it again. And again. Pressing the body of the instrument against her own. She was humming inside.

"Okay," said Charlie. "Next, you can try the D chord. Take your first finger—"

"No," interrupted Bella. "I'm good."

"You sure you don't want to—"

"No, no, this is good. I'm going to my room. Going to, uh, practice!" She practically ran up the stairs.

Once inside, she closed the door and locked it. She slid down the wall to sit crossed legged on the floor and arranged the guitar once again on her lap. _First finger here...next finger..._ It took a moment to replicate the hand position for the chord, but once she got it, she looked into that hole with less fear and strummed again. It worked. The ache felt better.

Sparkling ice frosted her window. It hurt to look at its crystalline, frozen beauty, unless she strummed. Then it still hurt, but not as much. So the guitar wasn't some miracle cure for her heartache. But it seemed to help. The sound filled her up inside.

She kept strumming, and she felt safe enough to let the tears roll down her cheeks. She could still breathe; she wasn't throwing up or hyperventilating. She could think about him, about—_say it_—about Edward, and she wouldn't come apart as long as she kept that soothing buzz vibrating in her middle. His crooked smile, his artfully messy bronze hair. _Strum._ The way he walked, so confident and graceful, like a cat. _Strum_. Oh, it was good to enjoy the memories without curling into a shaking ball of snot for once. She thought about his golden eyes. The precise curves of his lips. The alluring shadow along his jaw that had suggested, for the past century or so, that he might need to start shaving soon. She remembered his fine, white hands and the way he trailed them through her hair.

No matter how she tried, though, she could not remember the sound of his voice or the sweet scent that had wafted from him. It alarmed her that her memories were fading. She sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Charlie had been complaining, not to her, of course, but to Billy or Harry on the phone, about the rate at which he had to buy boxes of tissues. The least she could do was lower his grocery bill with her perfectly absorbent sleeve.

At times when she noticed her memories of Edward fading, she wondered if it had all been real. Only the pain assured her that their romance had truly happened. An angel out of time had held her to his heart, or to the place where his heart had been, and had sworn his eternal devotion. She, Bella Swan—clumsy, shy, skinny, boring Bella Swan—had been loved by a god, and that made the pain worth it. She would live on these memories for the rest of her life. As long as she could keep them fresh.

And that was where Jacob came in. Yesterday he'd said the motorcycles were almost ready. If her plan worked, she'd be in a dream with Edward this afternoon. Speed, thrill, fear—and then he would speak to her, show himself, look at her with those eyes that burned.

It was a new kind of pain that eventually made her stop playing the guitar. Her fingers hurt. _Yowsers._ She examined her left hand. The fingertips were pink and stinging. It would appear that she could not hook herself up to this guitar like some kind of morphine drip and play it all the time while thinking of Edw—of _him. Drat._

She leaned the guitar in a corner of her bedroom—beside the rocking chair where _he_ used to sit—and buttoned on a blue and green plaid flannel shirt. It would cover the smears on the sleeve of her long-sleeved T-shirt. Then she shuffled down to the kitchen again.

Last night, while listening to Charlie's woeful tunes about the time when her mother left, she had resolved to make him a real lasagna. Hopefully he'd never sing about microwaved pre-packaged pasta again. She set a pot of water on the stove to boil and bent down to retrieve the noodles and a frying pan from the cupboard. In the freezer she found a pound of ground beef. It would need to thaw. She was trying to decide whether to run the meat under some hot water in the sink, or make a vegetarian lasagna, or just give up, because why did everything in life have to be so painful, when the phone rang. Charlie picked it up.

"Uh huh... Mm hmm... Uh huh..."

_Was it Jacob?_

"Yep... Nope..."

_Were they going down to La Push? They had to go some time today to get the cruiser._

"Uh huh... I think so..."

_Who could it be?_ She clenched her fists in frustration. Then Bella heard a cracking sound and looked down to realize she had just crumpled all the pasta sheets in the box of lasagna noodles.

_I guess I'll be going with Option C._ Life was so hard. She turned off the gas on the stove, poured the pot of water down the sink, and watched it swirl away past the slimy rubber flaps of the garbage disposal. _Just like my dreams..._

Finally Charlie hung up the phone.

"That was Jacob. He says you can stay and do some more homework with him when you bring me down this afternoon."

Bella tried to sound as disinterested as possible as she lifted her coat from its hook. "Might as well go now," she said.

* * *

><p>Worst lunch ever. Bella sat at the Blacks' dining room table eating baloney on white bread with yellow mustard. Jacob had made it himself, so she choked it down to be polite. She was dying to get out on the bikes for her first lesson, but she didn't even know if they were finished yet, thanks to the fact that Charlie, sitting across from her and chewing placidly on his own sandwich, prevented them from talking about anything interesting. Billy had gone to a council meeting, so he couldn't distract Charlie, and worst of all, Jacob had a friend over. Quil. He kept putting his toes on Bella's shins under the table.<p>

Finally Charlie stood up and put his plate in the sink. "Thanks for the sandwich, Jake," he said. "Tell your dad I said hi."

Jacob waited till he heard the sound of the cruiser driving away before he turned to Bella and said, "They're done." He grinned like a Cheshire cat.

"Aw, sweet, are we going out on the bikes?" asked Quil.

"Not we, asshole," said Jacob. "Just me and Bella."

Bella was already stuffing her arms into her parka and tying the strings of her new red gnome hat under her chin. "Let's go," she said.

Quil followed them to the door like a sad puppy.

"Why don't you hang out with Embry?" Bella suggested.

"He's sick," Quil said. "Been out of school all week. I think I'll just stay here till you get back."

Jake looked up from tying his boots. "What? No," he said.

"I'll hang out in your room."

"No, come on, man. Why don't you just go home?"

"I can't. My grandpa kicked me out because the council meeting is at my house today."

"Where's your mom?" Jake asked. "Go with her."

"God, no," said Quil. "She went to the fabric store with my aunt to look at curtain patterns."

"So?"

"Fabric store, Jake. Freaking curtain patterns! Please just let me stay here."

This was taking too long. Bella had one hand on the doorknob. "Just let him stay here, Jake. Come on."

He turned and looked at her like she'd stepped on his parakeet or something. "Fine," he said. "But don't mess up my room, Quil. You know what I mean, you creep."

Quil was already walking down the hall. "Like you've never messed it up," he called back.

"Not like you would."

"Oh, right." Quil leaned around the corner with a wicked look on his face. "I forgot how you like things to be _clean._ How's Billy's water bill lately?"

"Shut up, Quil."

"All those showers... You must get really dirty working on the bikes with Bella."

"Shut up, Quil!" Jacob grabbed an orange from the counter and hurtled it at his friend.

"Fuck, man, my ear!"

"Don't fight!" cried Bella. "Don't fight. I mean, come on, Jake, I've seen your room, and it's already a mess, okay? It looks like something exploded in there."

Quil burst out laughing, and Jacob practically shoved Bella out the door and slammed it behind them.

* * *

><p>Flying. That's what it felt like. She was so scared, and thrilled, and scared. The sound of the bike's motor actually hurt her ears; she couldn't hear anything else, not the wind, or the surf, or Jacob shouting. The front tire was a wide black blur eating up the dirt, and the road rattled her arms so hard that her muscles burned and shook on her bones, and she only hung on by force of will.<p>

It would happen. It _had_ to happen.

And then it did. Like smoke he appeared, a light against the trees whizzing past. _Edward..._ He reached his white hand toward her, and she heard his voice, the sweet honeyed tones of admonition. _"Careful, my love, be careful!"_ He sounded just as beautiful as she remembered, like the clarion call of a French horn through a misty English forest in a fox-hunting movie, and not like the French horns in the Phoenix Community Wind Ensemble performances her mother dragged her to, and certainly not like the French horns in the hallway by the band room during third period at Forks High. Not like those at all. There was a reason those French horn kids were in the hallway.

Bella whipped her head to the side as she sped past her beautiful ghost, and she wasn't sure what happened next, whether her hair flew in her face, or she hit a stone, or twisted the throttle too hard, or all of those things, but one moment she was _literally_ flying through the air, and the next moment she had abruptly stopped soaring because she'd hit something huge and hard. A tree? No, a rock. A big rock by the side of the road. She lay on her back in the little bit of snow that had drifted up against the rock and panted for breath.

Her face felt strange. She lifted a hand to touch her mouth and discovered that the foreign sensation was a grin—a big, fat, idiotic grin. She almost laughed with joy.

She had seen him! She had seen Edward, and he was real, and she lay panting in the snow beside the rock, smiling up at the clouds. He was real. After so long, she had started to fear that she'd imagined the whole thing, her perfect love, his cool touch—she ran her fingers through the snow giddily—but she hadn't. He was real, and she wasn't crazy.

Jacob came roaring up on his own bike and spun out sideways in the gravel in his hurry to get to her. He leaped free of the machine as the road chewed up the polish he'd spent last night buffing to a shine. For her.

"Bella!"

He knelt in the weeds and snow, leaning over her, his dark eyes swimming with panic as he glanced at her arms and legs. He brushed at the snow on her red hat, and when he took her hand, his fingers were so warm that she flinched.

"I'm okay," she panted. "I'm great!" She sat up and grinned at him. "Let's go again."

But Jacob wouldn't hear of it, and she was so sated with glee that she didn't protest. She let him drive them home, even though he didn't have his license yet, because he assured her no one would bust him on the rez. She lay her cheek against the cold glass of the passenger side window and relived every second of her vision, trying to freeze it in her memory. Not crazy. Not crazy. But a little sleepy. She was starting to feel odd.

When they got back to Jacob's house, he stuck his head in the door and called for Quil. "Come help Bella," he said. "She hit her head and I think she's concussed."

Quil trotted out to the truck and opened the door for her. "Call me Doctor Quil," he said. "I have a Ph.D. in love."

"I'm fine, really," said Bella. "And anyway, that's the wrong kind of doctor." _SO wrong_. She thought longingly of Carlisle, his kind eyes, his calm compassion. His white smile and his white coat. And his white, white skin. _Pretty._ She had a sudden urge to lie down in the snow.

"Uh, Jake?" said Quil.

"Be right there," Jacob called. He was putting the bikes away in the garage.

"She's kind of heavy!" Quil yelled.

Bella was dimly aware that she had slumped forward against Quil's chest. "Hi," she said to him.

Jacob hurried out of the garage and back to the truck. "Get your hand off her ass!" he shouted.

"Her ass just kind of fell into my hand," whined Quil.

"I can't find my butt," said Bella.

"Oh, shit," said Jake. "Give her to me."

Jacob lifted her easily and carried her bridal style into the house, where he lay her on the sofa. "Help me get her coat off," he said to Quil. "Oh, never mind; you're just going to try to touch her boobs."

"Would not," said Quil. "Maybe not."

Jacob peeled Bella's parka away and tossed it at his friend. "Bella?" he said. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

She rolled her face to the back of the couch and inhaled deeply. "Soup," she said. "I think it smells like vegetable soup."

"No, Bella, how many fingers? Oh, man..."

"No, wait. Smells like..." she sniffed again, and her stomach lurched. "Oh, no. Blood. Something smells like blood. Jake, I'm gonna be sick!"

"Are you bleeding? Quil, get a bowl! Are you bleeding?" Jacob scanned her body again, feeling her ankles and knees for injury. "Did you skin your knee? Quil, get a bowl!"

Bella could hear Quil banging around in the kitchen. She tried to sit up, and her hat slid off.

Jacob sucked in a breath. "Oh, man, your head."

Bella touched her fingers to her forehead and they came away red. "Sorry!" she said. She tried to cover the cut with her hand, but the blood just kept seeping through her fingers. "Oh, I'm so sorry." She began to tremble.

"It's okay," Jacob said. "This couch is really old. It's already stained."

Then he stood and pulled off his t-shirt in one swift motion.

Bella's nausea settled instantly. She was...Jacob was... She tried her best to keep her eyes on his face as he bent over her, pressing the shirt to her cut. His long dark hair swung toward her over his brown shoulders, and she inhaled the scent of teenage boy. It was the first time, she realized, that she'd been close enough to a boy to smell the scent of his body, and Jacob smelled like...she had to think...like cinnamon and motor oil, soap and something spicy, which was perhaps a bit of sweat. He looked so concerned, leaning close to her, searching her eyes. Was he sweating? Was he worried for her? Whatever that scent was, it was sharp and new, and it went right to the pit of her stomach and flared hotly.

"I got a bowl!" said Quil, hurrying to her side.

"It's okay," said Bella. She kept her eyes on Jake's and gave him a tiny smile. "I feel better..."

"You still might be concussed," Jacob whispered, dabbing at her cut. "And honestly, you might need stitches."

"I think you need more help with your forehead," declared Quil. He pulled his shirt off, too.

Bella laughed. "Okay, YOU smell like vegetable soup," she said.

"I did sit on the couch while you were gone." He blushed a little.

"You mean my room is still pure and holy?" Jake asked.

"Oh, no, I violated the shit out of your room."

"You're a sick fucker, you know that?"

Bella sighed. "I don't think I want to know what you guys are talking about."

The boys shoved each other and Bella leaned back against the sofa. She let them press their smelly t-shirts to her head. Usually she was doing this sort of thing for her mom after she'd banged herself up in some kind of pottery class accident. It was kind of nice, for a change, to let someone take care of her.

She couldn't help but notice that Jacob was far more...well, physically fit than Quil. Yes, that's the term she would go with, because otherwise she'd start having semi-incestuous thoughts about the boy she kept reminding herself was practically her brother. _Yes. And that would be wrong,_ she told herself. Except her little brother was not so little anymore.

She made herself look at Quil instead. "Okay, Quil," she said. "You can stop sucking in your stomach now."

"Am I making you horny? Tell me that first."

"No."

"Fuck." Quil let out his breath in a huff. "Wait, are you lying?"

"Shut up, Quil," said Jacob. "We gotta figure out how to get her to the hospital. You think you can drive, Bella?"

"Sure." She stood up, but felt suddenly woozy again. Her vision narrowed to a whirling tunnel, and the next thing she knew, she was on the floor with Billy leaning over her. She sat up carefully and leaned against the sofa. Jacob stood in the kitchen doorway, Quil was nowhere in sight, and from the tension in the air, it seemed that somebody was in trouble.

"Child," said Billy, and his eyes were black and piercing, "what have you been up to?"

* * *

><p>DUN DUN DUN DUUUUUNNN! (Horror movie music) I prefer resolution to cliffhangers, but this seemed like a good way to end the chapter. I hope it's not TOO cliffy and that you can all get through your lives okay till the next chapter appears. -)<p>

Please leave a review! They mean a lot to me. Did you know that less than 5% of readers leave a review? I researched it on this site. Let's up that number, shall we? You can be a part of something amazing, people! Let's change the world, one fanfiction review at a time.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"Confrontation"

The ceiling was dirty. The tiles, which had presumably once been white, were tinged with gray from fifty years of wood smoke in winter, humidity in summer, and cooking fumes all year round. There were a few spiderwebs around the light fixtures. She had never noticed the condition of the ceiling before, but as Bella became more aware of herself, she conceded that cleaning the ceiling was probably not a high priority for Billy or Jake. And maybe they had never viewed it from the angle of a passed out person on the floor.

_Ugh_. Bella sat up against the Blacks' couch, rubbing the back of her head. She would probably have a goose egg there from falling over. Then she noticed that her hair and one of her arms were drenched.

"Why am I all wet?" she asked.

"You tell me," replied Billy. He was watching her with his hands folded neutrally across his lap, but she felt immediately guilty about...something. Had he discovered the bikes? She squirmed beneath his gaze. He made her feel like...like a rabbit waiting for a wolf to pounce. She wasn't sure what she could say without incriminating Jacob, so she said nothing.

Billy frowned. "All I know," he said, "is that I went to a council meeting believing that my son and his friends were doing homework. I returned to find two half-naked boys fighting over who got to throw water on a bleeding, unconscious girl."

Jacob came out of the laundry room, pulling a clean thermal shirt over his head. "I was trying to stop him," he grumbled. He brought a towel for Bella.

"Where's Quil?" she asked, drying her hair. She rubbed cautiously against the knot forming on the back of her head.

"I sent him home," said Billy. "Let me see your forehead."

Bella scooted toward Billy on her knees. He brushed aside her hair and peered at the cut.

"Stitches?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "I think you just need some butterfly bandages and Bactine." Billy turned to Jacob. "Son, I need you to run over the the Clearwaters' and ask Sue to come back with her medicine kit."

Jacob squeezed Bella's shoulder before hurrying outside. When the door swung shut, the cold gust made Bella shudder. There was a heavy silence. She began to feel uncomfortable again under the Chief's stare.

"You feel okay?" asked Billy. "You're not queasy, not going to faint any more?"

She shook her head.

"Good," said Billy. Then he grabbed her by the placard of her flannel shirt and yanked her against his chair. His face changed instantly, becoming dark and hard. The deep lines around his mouth and eyes grew blacker, transforming his visage into a snarling mask.

"You listen to me!" he growled. "I've had enough of you courting death. You've been putting yourself in harm's way ever since you got to this town, and you're damned lucky you're not dead yet!"

Bella struggled against the wheel and armrest of his chair. She couldn't break his grip, no matter how hard she pushed against his hands. Her heart was racing. "You're hurting me!" she gasped.

"You're hurting _me_," he retorted. And you're hurting your father, and Harry, and Sue, and Jacob. And Mrs. Kranz. Did you know that one of your teachers likes you? She's been calling Charlie every week since September to ask about you."

_Her history teacher? What did that have to do with anything?_

"I've been waiting for months for a chance to talk to you alone," continued Billy. "You didn't listen to me much last spring, but you're going to listen now." He shook her by her collar.

"Let me go!" Her voice trembled.

"So you can run away? I don't think so." Billy shifted his weight and spun the chair so that he was facing her directly. He put both hands on her shoulders and leaned into her face. "I'm sorry for what happened. I know you thought you were in love, and that you're hurting, but you have to realize that you're incredibly lucky. Stupid, but lucky. You could have died, over and over again. That business in Phoenix—fell through a window, my ass. And that night in the forest—do you know we all thought you were dead, or worse?"

"I got lost!" cried Bella.

"Bullshit!" Billy was shouting at her now. His face was red and he gripped her shoulders so hard that it hurt. "You knew what he was! You were smart enough to figure it out, and dumb enough to risk your life. And more lives than yours are going to be affected by that choice." Billy pushed her and she fell back on her haunches, too stunned to get up and leave now.

"What do you mean?"

Billy sat back. He was breathing heavily. "They stayed too long," he said. "Those monsters—" Billy stopped. He seemed to remember himself, to calm himself.

"He's not a monster." Bella's voice was quiet. "Please. I love him. You don't know—" But she couldn't speak anymore because of the pain that suddenly clawed at her heart.

"That's not love, Bella. Love is— It's— Well, I can tell you what love is not. It's not an experiment, a test of will power that plays with the life of a child."

He held up a hand at Bella's protest. "I spoke often with the leader. The doctor. Too often for my tastes, and I know more than I want to know about the temptation you posed. Jesus, girl. That's not love; that's some kind of game. Like he was congratulating himself every moment. Proud of himself for his restraint!"

"No." It was all she could get out from her clenched jaw. "No. He loved me." She was looking down, concentrating on the shiny toes of his brown boots. She couldn't look anywhere else or her eyes would spill over.

"He pulled you away from us! He may not have drank your blood, but he—he killed the light in you—he sucked out the _Bella_-ness of you. Who _are_ you anymore?"

"Stop it," she cried. "Just—No!"

"That whole family just ate you up, pulling you in and then dropping you in the woods like one of their drained carcasses. My God, if you could have seen— Bella, the eyes of those dead deer looked like yours do now. And I think... I think they did something to Charlie."

Bella put her hands over her ears, but he kept going.

"It was the little one. Hypnotizing him or something." Billy leaned forward and hissed at her. "For Christ's sake, he's a cop, he knew something was off, but every time he tried to forbid you to see them, she'd win him over somehow, make him forget what he meant to say. He said it was maddening.

"I should have done more—last spring—I should have tied you up, or told Charlie the truth, or something, but I'm not going to sit here now and watch you starve yourself, or throw yourself off a cliff, or just shut down like you've been doing. You think you're the only one with a broken heart? You selfish girl!"

"Leave me alone!" Bella tried to get up, but the aching hole in her chest throbbed so hard she couldn't stand. Wrapping her arms around herself, she bent forward over her knees to keep from splitting apart. "Leave me alone!" she croaked.

Billy kicked at her with the toe of his boot. "Look at me."

"No."

"Look at me, God damn it." He reached for her, quick as a snake, and she flung her arms up, afraid he was going to hit her. She cried out as he grabbed her arm and dragged her toward him over the carpet.

That's when the door banged open. "Come _on_!" Bella heard Jake say. "She's hurt."

Billy released her and she scrambled away from him. When Sue and Jacob strode into the living room, they found Bella gasping, in tears, rubbing her forearm with a shaking hand, and they found Billy sitting quietly by the window, turning from the curtain as if he had been looking for them, his face calm and smooth as a stone.

* * *

><p>Please review. Thank you, dear readers!<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: Story is rated M for mature themes and language; there might be future sexual situations.

Speaking of future situations, later on, the wolf pack will give Bella suggestions about music she ought to listen to since she's learning to play the guitar. I'd love to hear from readers about what YOU think the pack members would listen to. I need ideas for every wolf, plus Emily and Kim. Please tell me your suggestions in a review comment! Thank you.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

**"A Midwinter Night's Dream"**

Bella gripped the steering wheel tightly. If she could just keep her hands on it, then Jacob, who had insisted on coming with her to the hospital, wouldn't notice how badly they were shaking. Of course he noticed that she had been crying, but when he asked her about it, she played it off as her cut bothering her.

Her escape from Billy's house hadn't been easy. She wasn't sure how she would have managed it if not for Sue. Luckily, Mrs. Clearwater had taken Bella to the bathroom as soon as she arrived to wash her forehead and examine the injury. "You need a doctor look at this," she said. Then, noticing her pallor and anxiety, Sue insisted that Bella sit down on the toilet lid and wait while she asked Jacob to go start her truck.

She could hear Sue out in the kitchen grousing to Billy. "That child doesn't need a Band-Aid; she needs real stitches, Billy. I can't believe you couldn't tell that."

"Oops," she heard Billy reply.

"Honestly!" sighed Sue. Then she told Jacob to go warm up the truck and made her excuses to head home again, saying something about Leah's inability to do anything so simple as peel potatoes to get dinner going.

Bella heard the front door open and close twice, and she knew she was alone again with Billy. Sure enough, he called to her as soon as the house was quiet.

"Bella? Come out here."

She closed the bathroom door and locked it. Then she eyed the window, just a little slot over the tiled shower, and wondered if she could fit through it.

The front door creaked open again, and she heard Jacob talking to Billy in the living room. _Oh no, were they talking about her?_ She pressed her ear to the door, but she couldn't make out their words very well. Something about the council, and Embry._ Phew. It wasn't about her._ The conversation wasn't going well, though. Jacob's tone changed from concerned, to petulant, to angry. Billy's replies were sharp and curt. She cracked open the door to listen better.

"..sick for a week," Jacob was saying. "It's like you don't even care."

"You have no idea how much I care, boy."

"I want to go see him!"

"I said _NO_."

She had to get out of there, but she was afraid to go through the living room toward the door while they were fighting. Amazingly, she heard the front door open again and Sue's voice.

"I forgot my kit," she said.

Bella ran for it. She sped down the hall and grabbed her coat from the back of the couch. "Bye!" she called, banging her shoulder on the doorframe as she squeezed past a stunned Sue.

She skittered down the ramp from the porch and managed to slide across the driveway without falling. Ignoring the calls for her to wait, slow down, be careful, come back—_Heck no!_—she climbed into the cab and shut the door with a bang. Then she heard a second bang and there was Jacob, buckling up beside her.

"You don't have to come," she had said.

"You might need help," he replied.

She had tried again to get him out of her truck, but he'd turned his eyes on her and they were full of an emotion she recognized. "I don't want to be here right now," he said, and she stomped on the clutch and threw the truck into reverse.

They were halfway back to Forks before she realized that Jacob had been talking to her for the past ten minutes. She shook her head and tried to catch up with what he was saying.

"...such a good friend, you know?"

"Embry?" she asked.

"Well, him, too, but I was talking about you. I mean, it's not like I can talk to anyone else about this."

_She_ was a good friend? She felt a twinge of guilt. A good friend would know what he was talking about.

"Uh, really?" was the best she could add to the conversation.

"Maybe Embry would understand," Jacob continued, "but he's got something so contagious I'm not even allowed to call him on the phone, which is crap, and Quil—well, like everyone else on the rez, he thinks my father just shits roses. Trust me, he doesn't."

"TMI, Jake." She still wasn't sure what they were talking about, but she knew she didn't want to hear about _that_.

"Sorry. It's just—it's like nobody can _see_ him through the haze of _Chiefdom_—" Jacob made angry air quotes with his fingers "—that he's wearing like a cloak. Like he can do no wrong because his father could do no wrong, et cetera, et cetera. Makes me sick sometimes."

"Chiefdom?"

"You didn't know? Yeah, if this was a hundred years ago, we wouldn't have a council, we'd just have Billy. Hail to the Chief and all that crap."

No, she hadn't known that. Wait a minute... "So that makes you—"

"I'm next."

She would have thought this was kind of cool, except that Jacob didn't look happy about it at all. "You don't want it," she said.

"Not lately, no." He sighed. "My whole life I've been raised for the job. And I want it, most of the time. I want to make my father proud. Make the whole fucking town...ugh, the whole fucking town. That's the other thing. It's a lot of pressure, you know?

"Yeah." She did know. She thought about Alice arranging that horrible birthday party for her, making her wear a dress, and knowing the whole family was waiting for her to come to the house when she didn't want to. Why couldn't she have said no?

"I mean, mostly it's fine. I guess I'll be ready some day. But I'm starting to get all this pressure _now_, and I don't know why. My dad's always talking about tribe pride, responsibility, heritage—but now he won't tell me _anything_ about what goes on in the council."

"He used to tell you?"

"He used to take me with him sometimes and ask for my opinion. Now I'm shut out. And when I get angry, he preaches about self control."

"I hate self control!" Bella surprised herself with her own vehemence, blushing as soon as she said the words. She was thinking about all the times she had tried to kiss Edward, really kiss him, and he had pushed her away.

Jacob just laughed. "Thank you," he said. "Here's to recklessness!" He raised an imaginary glass. "You make me feel better," he said simply.

The stop sign at the 101 was coming up. As she slowed down and lifted a hand from the wheel to put on her right turn signal, she noticed that her hand wasn't shaking anymore. It surprised her to realize that thinking about Jacob's problem meant she wasn't thinking about her own.

"What are you smiling at?" asked Jacob.

_Whoa, she was smiling?_ "Well..." She paused as she looked left and right for oncoming traffic, then turned onto the highway to head into town. How could she word this without sounding too weird? _You make me forget that I was nearly drained by one vampire and brutally dumped by another? You make me want to eat again? You make me wish I could live in your garage and keep the whole world out?_ She settled for, "You make me feel better, too."

* * *

><p>It turned out that Jacob, sweet little golden-boy Jacob, was remarkably good at lying. With a perfectly straight face, and plausible details, he told Charlie that Bella had slipped on a smudge of oil while helping him with the Rabbit and banged her head on the fender.<p>

"I told her she should wait to Christen the car till after I'd got it running," he joked over the dinner table, "but she had no patience. Crazy girl." And he put out his tongue at her.

"Yep," said Charlie. "Sounds like Bella."

Then Jacob flicked a pea at her with his spoon.

"What are you, four?" she said.

"Sixteen next week," he replied, nailing her in the forehead with another pea. "And I'm gonna get my license and drive you around in the Rabbit."

"Why would I get in a car with a boy who flings food at me?"

"Cuz you're smiling."

_Darn it, she was._

Although Charlie reprimanded them about table manners, her father had no more questions for her other than the number of stitches she'd needed. Jacob, she comprehended, was thoroughly distracting.

While Charlie carried their dishes to the sink, Jake twisted his fists in the air like he was revving the bikes and mimed racing down the dirt road. She kicked his chair, but she couldn't budge him; rather, she caused her own chair to wobble backward, scraping loudly against the linoleum. She had to grab the table for balance. When Charlie turned around, Jake was brushing some lint off his shirt.

"For Pete's sake, Bella," said Charlie. "Try not to fall out of your chair. You've had enough stitches for one day."

Jacob was suddenly struck by a fit of coughing.

"Come on, Jake," said Charlie, "I'll drive you home."

Charlie grabbed his coat and they followed him to the door.

"See you, Bells," said Jacob, and before she could dodge, he had wrapped his arms around her in a crushing hug. "You okay?" he whispered.

She got the feeling she hadn't fooled him with her line about crying because her head had hurt. Still, she nodded, her face against his chest. _Ah, he was so warm. And there was that boy smell again._ She relaxed against him, and he squeezed her tightly.

When Charlie and Jake had gone, Bella picked up the peas from the floor, washed the dishes, and tried to do some homework. Looking at her history assignment reminded her of what Billy had said about Mrs. Kranz, and then she was suddenly flooded with the words Billy had said about everything else.

She remembered Billy's hard, glittering eyes, the fire in his face when he hissed at her. He had called her selfish. He said the Cullens were monsters, and—she didn't want to think any more about what Billy had said. She hurried upstairs to her room.

The guitar stood in the corner where she had left it. She sat down on her bed and tried to remember the G chord. Had it only been this morning when she'd sat here, thinking of her beautiful Edward? It took her a couple tries to find the correct finger position, and then she pulled the guitar against her aching stomach and strummed. The vibration steadied her; the chord was bright and hopeful.

Why had Billy been so mean? He didn't understand at all. He had no right to tell her who to love, or how to cope with her loss. And the way he had grabbed her arm...it was frightening. What if Jake and Sue hadn't come back just then?

She kept strumming, making that cheery sound, and tried to relive the thrill she had felt when she saw Edward's image before she crashed on the motorcycle. That was the best part of today, and with luck, she could recreate that experience over and over. But her thoughts of Edward were sullied, somehow, by Billy's angry words. How dare he mess up her memories for her? They were all she had left.

Maybe she _could_ write a song. Not a break-up song, but a song about how wonderful Edward was.

"Love...!" she warbled, but could get no further because—her voice—it was so small and squeaky. Her throat seemed to close up, and her eyes filled with tears. How could she honor Edward when she sounded like a...like a dying goose. She remembered the lullaby he had written for her. She could never sing something to compare with that. Putting the guitar down, she rubbed the heels of her hands across her stinging eyes. _Stupid, stupid idea._

In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth. The mirror showed her who she was: a stupid, pale, ugly girl, with scraggly hair and eyes that looked like—_no_. She wouldn't think of that.

She wrote a note for Charlie about turning in early, left it on the stairs, and crawled into bed still wearing her clothes.

* * *

><p>She was walking in a wintry forest. A deer walked beside her, stepping quietly through the snow. Its soft ears turned this way and that, flicking against the falling snowflakes. A few flakes lingered on the lashes of its warm brown eyes, which she thought were the color of rainwater in a wooden bowl, and as it lifted its feet daintily from the drifts, small puffs of steam rose from its wet, black nose.<p>

She found a pond. Her deer companion watched from the bank as she slid over the ice, cautiously at first, then with more speed and glee. She twirled gracefully; she was happy and laughing and beautiful.

Then _CRACK_, the ice opened up and black water spilled over her feet, pulling her down into the dark. Her heart seized with the cold and she saw her own hands backlit by the white sky as she went down. On the edge of the pond, the deer had opened its mouth; it was braying in terror. She didn't know deer could scream—that was her last thought before the ice slid shut over her head like an eye blinking out.

* * *

><p>When she woke up the deer was still screaming, and she felt even more frightened when she realized that the sound was <em>herself,<em> and she just couldn't stop. Charlie ran into her room, his eyes wild, and he caught her up like a little baby and pulled her against his chest. He sat on her bed and rocked her back and forth.

"Bella!" he said. "You're awake! It's me! I've got you! I've got you!"

She drew in a long, shuddering breath and began to sob. "Billy!" she choked out. "The deer! So cold!"

"Shhhh...!" said Charlie.

"Help the deer! Somebody help it!"

"I've got you. There's no deer. There's no deer, honey."

"Billy said—in the woods. A deer. It's dead, it's dead!"

Charlie kept rocking her back and forth as she buried her face in his sweater, crying so hard she could barely draw breath. Then suddenly she sat up on his lap and scrambled to get away.

"Let me go!" she cried.

"No, honey. I've got you."

So she did the best she could to avoid splattering him as her stomach revolted and she vomited onto her purple bedspread. Charlie loosened his grip on her as she heaved, over and over. Then she began to shiver, and she turned into her father's chest and cried more.

"I'm sorry. Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. We'll wash it."

"Billy—Billy hates me!"

"No, sweetie."

"He does! He hates me!"

Charlie picked her up and carried her to the bathroom, where he helped her get a drink of water and rinse out her mouth. Her whole body was shaking so much that she couldn't stand, so he scooped her up again and carried her downstairs to the couch.

"So cold!" she whimpered.

Charlie piled afghans over her, tucking in the edges beneath the cushions. He sat down on the floor beside her and took her hand. Bella clung to his fingers like she was lost at sea, and for the rest of the night, whenever she woke again, gasping and crying, "He left me! He left me in the woods!", her father was right there, still holding on.

* * *

><p>Thank you, readers. Please review.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Many thanks to jakejunkie for adding this story to her Community, "Jacob & Bella: Heartbeats." There are many great J + B stories there, so I hope you will check it out.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

**"The Comforter"**

Winter's watery light drifted so dully through the white curtains that Bella woke with a start, fearing for one horrifying moment that she was under the pond's ice in her dream, staring up at lost sunlight. But she was just on the couch, half-smothered beneath a heavy heap of blankets that her father had piled on her last night. He was still holding her hand.

Rolling to her side, she released his fingers carefully so as not to wake him. Thank goodness he had not been gripping the hand that James had bitten, or there would be too many questions about her strange, shimmery scar. She remembered crying most of the night, babbling words she wished she hadn't said about Edward, Billy, Alice, her dreams, the forest... At least she hadn't said the word "vampire." She figured she wouldn't be here on the couch if she had said _that_; if she had, she bet that her father would have taken her to a mental institution, or at least a doctor's office.

Charlie lay face-down on the floor beside the sofa. His shoulders rose and fell softly with his breaths, and his face was turned toward Bella. It looked like he had used nothing more than his arm for a pillow, and his hair was flattened in odd places across his scalp. Still dressed, and still wearing his shoes, he looked utterly exhausted.

As she regarded him, a tendril of some unfamiliar emotion began to uncoil in her stomach. She could see how his face had aged since she had come to live with him. Lines between his eyebrows, deep creases across his forehead. Graying hair. But the worst was his skin. Maybe last night had exacerbated the effect, but the tone of his flesh was a sickly, sallow hue. Whitish yellow. His lips seemed devoid of color, yet his eyes looked too colorful, almost bruised, with a purplish shadow that made them appear sunken within the sockets. She also noticed that his eyes were rimmed in red, even as he slept, and it was then that she recognized the feeling spreading through her: shame.

Charlie looked...he looked...dead. Her poor, poor father. What had she done to him? She realized at the same time that the Cullens had looked the same, except beautiful. How could that be? They were the most beautiful people she had ever known, but seeing her father look this way was seriously disquieting. And, she realized, just two days ago she had looked in the mirror in Newton's customer bathroom and felt proud to have achieved this appearance, like it was a badge of her heartache. Was this how she looked to her father? To her teachers? To the other people at school? Charlie—and maybe she—looked like a corpse on a mortician's table.

She covered her face with her hands. Her head ached from all the crying last night and her skin felt dry and papery. Her mouth tasted like vomit; her arms and legs felt like wood. If her father felt half this bad, she pitied him. Peeling one of the afghans off of herself, she draped it over Charlie. He barely stirred.

Not wanting to wake him, Bella clambered awkwardly over the side of the couch to go pee. As she climbed the stairs, an unpleasant scent increased in intensity. She discovered the source in the bathroom.

There, in the bathtub, floated her purple comforter. It was too large for the washing machine, so Charlie must have tried and failed to clean it here during the night. Like some kind of stewed sea monster, it lay swirled in a warm, soupy mess of soap suds and last night's dinner. Bella cracked open the window and hurriedly used the toilet and brushed her teeth.

When she came back downstairs, Charlie was awake. He set a plate of crackers on the coffee table and handed her a mug of hot tea. "Sit down, honey," he said. "We need to talk."

Over the next hour or so, Bella made herself listen. It hurt, and she knew she would be crying all over the place if she had any tears left, but everything Charlie was saying was true. She had scared him half to death; she had worried him and her mother and all of their friends; she had lost weight; she was looking unhealthy; she didn't seem to take pleasure any more in the things she used to like; she hadn't kept up any friendships.

"Billy's boy seems to be your only friend. I'd have let him throw food at you all through dinner last night, just to see you smile, except that I knew you'd be crawling under the table to clean it up later."

Bella grimaced. She hadn't known that Charlie picked up on things like that.

"Which reminds me," her father continued, "I've lived on my own for years and years, and I know how to scrub a floor. If you hadn't noticed, I keep this place pretty clean. You don't have to do so much of the housework. Sometimes, I think you clean things over again that I've done, and it's a little insulting. Like you don't think I can do it right or something."

"I'm sorry," Bella said. She hadn't known she was hurting him in this way, too. He looked so pained, and pale. "Please, Dad, eat something." She pushed the plate of crackers at him.

"Me, eat something? Jesus, Bella, you've got me so scared." He jumped up and strode into the kitchen, returning with a banana. "YOU eat something. Something fresh. Bella, all your clothes are getting loose and except for pushing your dinner around on your plate—are you trying to make it look like you ate something?—I only ever see you eating Poptarts."

_He noticed that? Darn, she thought she had perfected the Dinner-Food-Shoving Quantity Obfuscation Technique._

"And maybe a father shouldn't say something like this to his daughter, but honestly, sweetie, you're...well...you kind of smell like artificial strawberry flavoring. That's not healthy."

"Edw—!" she blurted before she could stop herself. He had liked her scent. He had said she smelled sweet, intoxicating.

"Edward," finished her father. "That worthless boy. I hate to see you hurting like this. So badly, for so long. I should have—" He stopped. Leaning forward in his recliner, one elbow on his knee, he pressed the palm of his hand to his bent forehead.

"I'm a shitty father," he said quietly.

"What?" Bella looked at the man in the chair opposite her and saw that somehow, without meaning to, she had crushed him. He was suddenly old and small. "No," she said. She got up off the couch and knelt before him. "No, you're not."

"I am. I'm so sorry, Bella."

His voice sounded twisted. Was he crying? She didn't know it was possible to hate herself any more than she already did. She put her head on his knees and hugged his legs. "Don't blame yourself," she said.

"No, it's my fault," said Charlie. "I didn't know what to do. All these months. I didn't know how to help you, and so I did nothing." He rubbed his arm across his eyes and bent forward over her body, curling around her. "I still don't know what to do, but I'm going to try. I'm going to try, sweetie."

It was really horrifying, Bella thought later, the sounds one could make while trying to cry on one's father's knees when one has a sore throat and is utterly dehydrated.

Charlie talked to her about how, when she was a little baby, he used to hold her while she cried, and some nights she would only fall asleep if she were snuggled on his chest. He would lie on the couch with her so that Renee could rest after taking care of her all day.

"I loved you so much, right from the beginning," he said. "You were my precious little girl. When you were gone, I just—I didn't learn what to do, as a father, while you grew up. I'm so sorry. And now you're back, and it's like a gift I never dared to hope for. I'm going to make it up to you."

The responsibility she felt then for Charlie's happiness tugged at her like a rope on a parade float. Maybe she was freakishly awkward like a giant Snoopy, or a gargantuan turkey bumping between the buildings along 5th Avenue, and maybe she spent most of her time wishing she could just float away, but now she felt a grounding pull. An anchor she hadn't known about before.

"I'll try, too, Dad," she said.

"Will you?" Charlie lifted his face, letting her see everything he felt. His fear, his pain, his love for her. "Will you try? Because honestly, I'm scared that you don't want to feel better."

The rope holding her to the ground pulled tighter. Did she want to feel better? She looked at her father's brown eyes, so like her own. Then she thought about Edward and his golden glance, how she thought she would be with him always, how he was the first person—the only person—who had ever deeply loved her. Yet he left. And truly, she saw now, Edward wasn't the only one who loved her. Charlie loved her. Charlie was in pieces over her. It was not the same as romantic love, of course, but it was real and sustaining. Suddenly she felt so relieved, ready to lay down some of her burden on the shoulders of someone older, someone who could take care of her. She had never had that with Renee, she realized.

She hugged Charlie's knees as hard as she could. "I do," she whispered. "I want to feel better, but I don't know how. Most of the time I feel like, really bad. Or I feel nothing. That's nice."

"No, that's horrible." Charlie rubbed her back. "It's time I acted more like a father," he said. "More...involved in your life. But you have to talk to me. Lord knows I'm no motor mouth, so we'll both have to make an effort."

She nodded, and he kissed her hair. "Too many Poptarts," he chuckled.

Charlie called in to the station to officially take the day off, and then he called the school to report her absent. He got an earful from the secretary because by that time, it was nearly noon.

"I need a shower," said Bella, "but, um..."

"Yeah," said Charlie. "Not my best plan."

He went out to the garage and returned with a great big snow shovel and a Hefty bag. Together, they climbed the stairs. The smell had dissipated somewhat since Bella had opened the window, but the sight in the tub was still pretty grisly.

"You hold the bag," said Charlie, stirring the shovel into the water, trying to wedge it under the sopping mess. When he lifted the comforter, it made a hideous sucking sound as it came out of the water. "This thing weighs a ton," he complained.

"Wait," said Bella. "I need gloves." She found some yellow, elbow-length cleaning gloves in the cabinet under the sink, and then she held the bag out for her father.

"Get it over the tub," he directed. "I don't want this to spill on the floor."

There was only so much room in the little bathroom. With her father and the snow shovel and the comforter taking up half the space, it was hard to get close enough to prevent drips. Also, it was hard to see where she was holding the bag because she also held her face up in the air and off to the side. "Gah, it smells so bad!" she said.

"Hold it closer!"

With her face turned away, she felt rather than saw the weighty mess slither into the bag. It was suddenly so heavy that her hands slipped, and the bag fell into the bathtub with a loud splash. Water, suds, and an inordinate amount of unmentionable detritus slopped over the side of the tub and flowed over the floor.

"Shit," said Charlie.

By the time they'd gotten the bathroom cleaned, about an hour later, they were actually laughing about it. Of course, with her sore throat and aching muscles, Bella sounded like an emphysematic sea lion. "Ow," she wheezed, rinsing Comet from the tub walls. "It hurts to laugh."

"I'm so happy you're laughing," said Charlie. "I'd wash a dead bear in that bathtub every weekend just to hear you laugh."

"Let's not go that far," she said, smiling. Actually smiling, she realized, with her father.

Charlie took a quick shower and went downstairs, saying that he'd make them some lunch. Bella took a longer shower, letting the hot water soothe her sore body. She felt like she'd just run a marathon, or been crushed in an avalanche. Or spent a weekend vacillating between panic attacks and sobbing her guts out. Oh, and tossing herself into rocks from speeding motorcycles.

After the shower, as she tugged the comb through her wet hair, she was surprised to notice long, snarly hunks of it breaking off all too easily. She pulled the dark strands from the comb when she was done and rolled them in her hands. They made a little tuft about the size of a hamster. _Maybe,_ she thought,_ I really should try to eat healthier food._

In her room, she pulled on some jeans, lifting her feet carefully into each leg as her body wobbled. She buttoned up a white and green plaid flannel shirt and descended the stairs, holding onto the railing.

Charlie had made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches with a big glass of chocolate milk for her. It was what he had fed her when she was five and she visited, but it was still perfect. She sank into her chair at the kitchen table gratefully. As she lifted her spoon, she looked up at Charlie and saw that they were wearing the same shirt.

His mustache twitched with what may have been a smile. "We're too much alike in some ways," he said. Then he dipped his sandwich in his soup and said, "So. What's the story with Billy and the dead deer? A nightmare?"

She froze, staring into her bowl. "Um, yes?"_ Crap, she was such a bad liar._

"Really," said Charlie. "Because I called him on the phone while you were in the shower, and he wants you to stop by as soon as you can. Wants to apologize."

Bella kept her eyes down. She knew if she looked up that Charlie would have his cop face on, ready for interrogation. But he surprised her with a softer voice.

"Come on, Bells. We just promised to talk to each other. What happened?"

"He, uh," she began. She felt like she was on the high dive at summer camp. Way too high above black water when she couldn't swim. But she jumped anyway. "He yelled at me. About my, uh, moods. And he said I was hurting you, and that I look like...roadkill."

"What?"

"Like a dead deer." She couldn't very well explain about the Cullens and their exsanguinated mammalian meals.

"Hmm. Yelled at you. Sounds like he was trying to shake some sense into you. I don't know whether I should thank him or punch his lights out for scaring you so bad."

_Please, please,_ she thought, _punch his lights out._ "And he grabbed my arm," she added. _Maybe that would tip the scales._

Charlie's eyebrows rushed together in an angry black V. "Where?" he demanded. "Show me."

"Right here." She pulled up her sleeve, expecting to see a black and blue handprint, but there was no blemish on her skin. She blinked. "He grabbed my arm and pulled me at his wheelchair."

"Don't like that," Charlie frowned. "Don't like that at all. We're going to talk to him."

"No, please, let's just avoid him."

"No can do." Charlie stood up and carried the dishes to the sink. "We're going down there this afternoon. I'm the father, and that's what I say."

_Crap. Was he actually strutting across the kitchen? This relationship improvement was going to have its downside._

Charlie declared that he was going upstairs to take care of the Hefty bag containing her comforter. His method of taking care of it, however, proved to be nothing more than hauling it out to the front porch. "Need a Plan B for that thing," he said.

"Don't worry about washing it," Bella said. "I kind of don't like purple."

"You don't?"

"No. I mean, I know you wanted to fix up my room all nice for me last winter, but I'd really rather just have one of Grandma's old quilts."

She couldn't have predicted the huge smile that spread across Charlie's face. "She would have loved to see you grow, sweetie." He promised to bring a couple quilts down from the attic later. Then he asked her about catching up on the school assignments she'd missed today.

"Isn't there anyone you could call? The Newton boy, maybe?"

_Ugh._ Mike had been really nice to her at the store, but if he came by, he might tell Jessica how she looked like hell and had apparently stayed home from school due to emotional issues... and Jessica would tell Lauren. Then she remembered.

"There's one person I could call."

And shortly after 3:00, a timid knock sounded on the front door. Angela.

"Thanks for coming," said Bella. She motioned for the other girl to step inside.

"Of course," said Angela. She peeled off her coat and hung her lumpily knitted magenta scarf on the coat rack. "I'm so glad you called me. I miss talking with you."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

The two girls smiled at one another and Bella caught herself hoping that maybe she could have a normal life, with a friend or two, and at least one competent parent, after the horror of her lost love and abandonment. Yes, she would _try._

Angela jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the Hefty bag on the porch. "What's that?"

Bella blushed. Maybe a normal life was too much to hope for. "Don't ask," she said.

* * *

><p>Author's note: Thank you for reading. Please share your opinion with me in a review. I have already gotten many excellent ideas from reviewers, and I love talking with you all.<p>

Also, please tell me what kind of music you think the wolves and their imprints would listen to. Later in the story, they are going to give Bella musical suggestions for her guitar lessons. Thanks!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**Bella Burns a Vom-Pyre**

**Author's Note:** Many thanks to my reviewers, especially the new folks who have found my story recently. I appreciate you all very much.

Thanks also to Zayide for recommending my story in the latest installment of her own, "Cursed." I have not read it myself because I am tender-hearted (chicken-hearted, some may say!) but if you like suspense, you should check it out!

You may also enjoy checking out my profile, which I have updated with more details of my Forks pilgrimage. If you have been there, too, I would like to hear from you.

Lastly, my apologies for the delay in posting. I am trying to post every weekend, but I missed a week due to my crazy baby wanting to play and eat all night, every night. Woo hoo, party in the nursery. Zombie Author has emerged to post this. Good news: this chapter is twice as long as usual!

* * *

><p>Charlie cut up some apples and cheese for the girls and tried to stay discreetly out of the way as they talked at the kitchen table. Angela described the assignments Bella had missed in Calculus, Spanish, Physics, and English class. Nothing major. But Mrs. Kranz had introduced a monstrous new project in history class, to the annoyance of most of the students.<p>

"I think it's a great idea, personally," said Angela. "But most people were ticked off."

The new project would combine their current studies on the Great Depression with the school board's recently instituted requirement of thirty hours of community service each year. When it was discovered that almost none of the seniors had been volunteering anywhere all through the first semester, Mrs. Kranz stepped in.

"She's calling it Seniors with Seniors. She says the retirement home is full of 'living treasures' and we're all going to 'mine for gold.' Some people, um, laughed at her." Angela looked ashamed for "some people," and Bella strongly suspected that Lauren Mallory would have been one of the scoffers. "We're supposed to pair up with the residents. Interview them."

_Great,_ thought Bella, _old people._ Old people scared her. She envisioned herself wandering the halls of the retirement home, trying not to gag on the fumes of Ben-Gay, and attempting to make friends with wrinkly people who looked like they might keel over at any moment. Spidery veins. Claws of arthritis. Hair falling out on clumps... kind of like her own. Crap, _she_ was aging. She did NOT want to sit around at the retirement home because it would be like looking in a mirror at her own future, now that Edward was gone, now that she would no longer be transformed into a perfect, powerful, ever-youthful being. That would have been her true self, she thought, but it was destined now to rot away in this imperfect body.

Charlie staggered into the kitchen then and groped through the cupboards until he found a bottle of aspirin. He swallowed three without water and coughed harshly.

Bella cringed. _Must try_, she reminded herself._ Try to make the best of things for Charlie's sake._

"Mike wanted to use his grandma," Angela was saying, "but it has to be someone we don't know. So here."

She pulled a couple of 3 x 5 index cards out of her folder. The residents who wanted to have a student interviewer had written a few things about themselves. It was like internet dating, thought Bella, but without the internet, the sexy pictures, the romance, or even the promise of a nice time. Ok, it was not like internet dating.

"Everybody chose someone in class today, so these are the only people left."

_Even better. Old people no one else wanted to talk to._

"You pick," said Angela, sliding the cards across the table to Bella. "I already volunteer there so I know most everybody anyway. They're all pretty nice."

Bella looked at the three cards. One was written in an angular cursive.

**_Albertine Kowalski. My birthday is July 7, 1919. I enjoy knitting, my grandchildren, and knitting things for my grandchildren. Come see me. But not on Tuesdays, I have knitting group. Also I enjoy looking at photographs of my grandchildren. And I like weather. Do you like weather? Come see me. But not on Tuesdays._**

_Oh, lord._ She looked at the next card.

**_Vera Moss. 1/25/20. Collects figurines. Sometimes she plays the piano._**

_Why was this card written in third person? Maybe her hands were too achy to write. But then how could she play the piano?_

The third card read,

**_Reginald B. Horowitz. My birthday is none of your business. Fuck off._**

Clearly, Mrs. Kranz had overlooked this card.

"Ooh, that Mr. Horowitz!" said Angela. "Don't pick him."

Bella eyed the remaining two cards. She wasn't really into knitting. But Angela—Bella thought of the pink, lumpy thing Angela had unwound from her neck when she arrived.

"Hey, did you make your scarf?" she asked.

"Well, I tried," laughed Angela. "but I'm not very good at knitting yet."

"Then you take Albertine."

Angela looked shyly pleased.

_There,_ thought Bella. _I'm not selfish. Billy can go_—she thought about what Mr. Horowitz had said—_Billy can go wheel himself into a lake,_ she finished. Mr. Horowitz was pretty rude.

"Do you know this Vera lady?" she asked.

"Not really. She's pretty quiet."

_Good_, thought Bella. _Maybe she'll tell me just enough for my assignment and then I can sit there until my hours are up. God, I hope she doesn't die. Do I have to have a new Senior if she dies?_

Angela was digging into her folder. "Almost forgot," she said. "Here's a note for you."

Bella unfolded a slip of paper with a cartoon image of a green bookworm—drawn with eyeglasses, no less—happily eating its way through a red apple. It read, "From the Desk of...MRS. KRANZ!" The teacher herself had written,

**_Dear Bella, I hope you feel better soon. —Mrs. K._**

_Busybody_, thought Bella_._ This was the lady who had been calling Charlie about her, right? Her whole fall semester had been a blur, and she wasn't even sure what Mrs. Kranz looked like. Hopefully, she was still passing this class.

Charlie walked Angela to the door. "Come by anytime," he said. "It was nice to see you." Then he kicked Bella's foot.

"Oh—" she said. "Uh, yeah, thank you."

Angela made a face as Bella opened the front door, letting in a gust of air from the porch. The girls regarded the Hefty bag balefully. It stank, but Angela was too polite to say so.

"Charlie—er, Dad," said Bella, "why don't you just put that in the trash can?"

"Can't," said Charlie. "Too big. Where would we put our trash this week?"

"What_ is_ it?" Angela asked again, and to Bella's humiliation, Charlie actually told her about Bella getting sick on it and the horrendous bathtub debacle.

Angela laughed and laughed, until she saw the expression on Bella's face. "Sorry," she said. "But it sounds like the only thing you can do now is burn it!"

* * *

><p>That was how they ended up in Bella's truck, headed for the beach. Charlie drove, Bella rode shot gun, and the bagged comforter sloshed along in the truck bed next to a gallon of kerosene. Bella could sense it sitting back there like an unwanted hitch-hiker.<p>

Of course, Billy's house was on the road to the beach. Bella prayed they'd drive on by, but Charlie turned into the driveway with the same sort of grim purpose he displayed when going to court. Gravel popped under the tires as he pulled up next to the little red house.

"Wait here," he said, his jaw firm, and he climbed out of the cab.

Bella slumped in her seat until just her eyes and the top of her head cleared the lower edge of the window. She watched her father stride up the ramp and bang on the door. After a moment, it opened and he went inside.

Clouds scuttled across a gray sky. The windshield, too, was gray with salt spray from the wet roads. It was a bleak sort of afternoon light that fell on her through those filters of clouds and dirty glass.

She hoped Jacob would come out and say hello to her, but he didn't, so maybe he wasn't home. She considered looking for him in the garage, but reflected that her father might come out at any moment, follow her in there, and discover the bikes. Best to stay put.

A few stray bits of snow blew across the hood of the truck, melting from the recent heat of the engine. She listened to the truck clicking and pinging as it cooled. She kind of wished she could start the heater, but Charlie had taken her keys with him. Curling up on the seat, she pulled her coat down over her knees and thought about Edward.

He was gone. Now her life was a bleak, wintry field, and she would have to carry on for the sake of her father. There was something nobly tragic in living for such a reason. She would take for her model Austen's Anne Elliot, who had argued that a woman's constancy enabled her to love when all hope was gone, despite the advice of friends and family, despite common sense and bald fact. Anne had become an old maid, yet she bore her fate with meek dignity. Of course, Captain Wentworth had returned. Edward, on the other hand, would go on blowing through the world without her forever, like a titanium snowflake, all cold and sparkly.

Charlie was taking a long time in there. Was he going to call her in? God, they were probably fighting. About her. Was this her fault? Probably. She felt guilty. Her lips were chapped from chewing on them so much.

Holy crow, she was getting COLD. Her teeth were chattering and her toes were going numb. She could either stay here and freeze like the vomit that was probably crusting to her comforter inside that garbage bag, or she could go in there and face Billy.

She decided to stay in the truck.

Her numb fingers and toes, however, headed for the door. She was about to knock when the sound of her raised voices made her pause. Surely it didn't count as eavesdropping if she just waited for a moment to avoid interrupting them. That was only polite, right?

"...all these years, and you can just let that boy walk around without knowing. How can tribal business justify that? The same kind of _tribal business_—" Bella could picture Charlie's sneer "—that can justify what you did to Bella? That's a bullshit excuse and you—"

"You know I would never—"

"And you should think of Jake!"

"I _am_ thinking of Jake."

"That poor boy. All these years! And my father—"

"She's here."

"What?

"Bella. At the door."

Charlie opened the door then, and he looked pale and dazed. He pulled her into a fierce hug. "My girl," he said. Then he straightened up and turned to Billy. "We've both made mistakes," he said. "But we don't have to keep on making them."

Charlie stepped out onto the porch and started to pull the door shut. "Two minutes, Bella," he said.

"Oh, I'm not staying," she squeaked. "I just came to get you."

"No, stay. Billy wants to apologize." His stare was hard, directed over her shoulder. "I insist." Then he shut the door.

_Uh oh._

Bella spun around, her back to the door, and prayed that her eyes would adjust quickly to the dim room. She could hear the quiet crackle of wood burning in the stove. Billy sat at one end of the scratched dining room table, his face half-hidden from the light, with a gray wool blanket on his lap and an album of black and white photos spread out before him. When he looked up at her, Bella could see what Jake meant about Billy wearing his chiefdom like a grand cloak. He was not wearing it now. He looked tired and sad. She waited for her apology.

At last he said, "I'm not sorry."

She stared at him.

"Your father says you cried till you puked. I'm glad." His voice was quiet. He lowered his eyes as he slowly sorted the photos. "You've been sick for too long. Nothing seems to affect you, and I—maybe it was unfortunate that I got you alone right after that council meeting. I was...upset. But tell me, would you have let him help you otherwise?"

She couldn't deny it.

"Sit down, honey."

"No, thanks." Her hand was twisting the doorknob back and forth behind her.

"About yesterday—I would never hurt you. Do you believe me?"

"No."

Billy sighed. He looked out the window toward Charlie and the truck. "Sometimes he comes here when he should be at work, Bella. Did you know that?"

She shook her head.

"He comes here, while you and Jake are in school. We talk, or he sleeps a bit, because he's not sleeping at home; he's lying awake, listening to your nightmares and feeling paralyzed."

Bella looked at the floor. She felt ashamed.

"Please let him help you."

She nodded.

"One more thing," said Billy. "You didn't tell him, did you? About the Cullens?"

Bella looked up, horrified. "No!"

"Well, it's good to know you can keep a secret."

"I would never betray them."

"Or anyone else that you love?"

"What?"

Billy was watching her carefully, his eyes narrowed. Then he seemed to relax. He slid a photo toward her.

"This is my grandfather," he said. "Only one photo of him."

Bella looked at the image. A man with dark skin and black eyes stood beside a weathered, wooden building. He wore a checkered shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Though his hair was white, his face, with its straight nose and wide, clear brow, did not look particularly old. But he was clearly not young either. It was odd, but she could not have guessed at his age. _Why was he showing her this?_ _Wait, his mouth._ The full, defined lips.

"Oh," she said. "His mouth looks like Jacob's."

"I think so, too," said Billy. "But mostly Jake looks like me."

He paged through the album and stopped at a photo of a lanky boy sitting on the steps of someone's house.

"That's my father," he said. "When he was Jake's age."

The boy in the photo was grinning, squinting into the sun. He was thinner than Jacob and looked a little shorter, with a more wiry build. Large hands resting on his knees. Loose, bony shoulders. Wide-set eyes and a square jaw.

"He doesn't look like either of you," said Bella.

"No," Billy sighed. "Not like me or Jake."

He kept staring at the photo. Bella thought maybe he wanted her to try harder to see a resemblance, so she stepped away from the door and leaned over the table with him. Really, this kid didn't look a thing like Jacob.

"Sorry," she said.

Billy closed the book and turned to face her. "Look," he said, "I'm glad you and Jake are becoming friends. He's good for you. That boy is a pile of sunshine, and naturally resilient. I'm counting on it." He lifted the photo of his grandfather from the table and gazed at it for a long moment. Then he replaced it in the album.

"Jake's throwing you a rope right now, though he doesn't know it. That's just who he is. But you need to use that rope to climb out of the hole you're in, because if you pull him down with you—"

_Hoooonk!_ Charlie was laying on the horn in the truck.

Billy leaned back. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at her wearily. "Just be good to him. He's got a lot of responsibility coming his way soon. A lot of...stress."

_Right. He was talking about the Chief stuff._ She nodded. "Can I go now?"

He held her gaze a moment longer, as if searching for something in her eyes. When he finally nodded, she slipped out into the cold.

She climbed into the cab, slid across the seat, and wrapped her arms around Charlie. "I'm so, so sorry," she whispered into his coat.

* * *

><p>Charlie pulled into the lot beside the marina and they climbed out of the cab, Bella tugging her red hat down over her ears. The roar of the surf was loud; the waves were picking up and a steady breeze blew inland. It was late now in the gray afternoon, beginning to get dark, and the tide was coming in.<p>

Despite being given the easy job of toting the kerosene, Bella managed to stumble over her own feet on the path leading down to the water. The fuel canister dropped with a dull thump and she caught herself on her palms, shivering as the cold grit of the the beach slid up her coat sleeves and into her shirt. Charlie gave her a hand up.

"Are we really going to burn this thing?" she asked. "Maybe we could just fling it into the ocean."

"Hell, yes, we're going to burn it. Out with the old, and in with the...well, the older. I'll get those quilts for you from the attic when we get home." Charlie set the trash bag in the sand and began piling up driftwood. "Besides," he said, "you can't just throw stuff in the ocean, you know."

Bella sighed. She turned around in a circle and saw a few twigs that she could add. "I guess it would just come right back, huh?" She tossed her twigs onto the pile.

"Like a boomerang," said Charlie. "Besides, there's a five hundred dollar fine for littering."

She could see how a big, black Hefty bag filled with a barfy comforter would be a pretty conspicuous piece of litter.

They spent almost an hour stacking up wood. Charlie kept saying, "not yet," until they'd gathered enough logs to make a pile the size of his La-Z-Boy recliner. Then he made her help him drag from the rocks at the forest's edge some long, thin trunks of young pines that had probably washed ashore last winter and had had all their branches beaten off in the surf. These he arranged in a tremendous teepee shape over the rest of the wood. The top ends of the teepee logs stood a few feet above the pile, splayed wide like a hand with its fingers trying to catch clouds. The whole structure had to be at least ten feet tall.

"This is gonna burn for days," she complained.

"Nah, the tide will take care of it in a few more hours."

As instructed, Bella glugged kerosene all over the pile while Charlie dragged the Hefty bag nearer. It made a wide trail in the sand like an enormous snail. Or, thought Bella grimly, a body that they were trying to dispose of. She did not offer to help as Charlie opened the bag.

"Blurg," he said, coughing. "Stand back." Then he grabbed the comforter by its corners and flung it in the air like a big drippy cape. It landed, as he had intended, on the splayed frame of the teepee top.

"It can steam up there till it's dry enough to burn," he said.

Suddenly, this whole set up looked very much like a funeral pyre. She recalled the ending of Beowulf, how his warriors had burned his body atop a similar structure so long ago on an English beach. Her sopping purple comforter sagged lifelessly on the teepee, and she felt a stab of heartache as she recalled the many times she had cuddled with Edward on her bed. If she hadn't been so emotionally and physically exhausted, she might have climbed onto the pile and dragged it down.

Charlie pulled a book of matches out of his pocket. "You want to do the honors?"

She shook her head.

"Okey-dokey."

When Charlie touched the match to the wood, flame exploded into being. With a great flash and a deafening _WHOOSH_, a huge orange fireball, like the shape of an onion, billowed out from the logs and roared skyward.

"AHH! cried Bella, staggering backward and falling on her butt in the wet sand. She scrambled away like a crab. _Holy crow, it looked like a small cabin was on fire!_

"Whoooooooo-ee!" yelled Charlie. "Alright!"

She could hardly hear him over the hiss and roar of the flames. My God, the whole reservation could probably see this. She glanced worriedly up and down the beach, but there were no other people around.

After a few moments, the kerosene burned off and the fire moved deeper into the woodpile, burning slowly and steadily. Bella inched forward and stood next to her father. The crackling and flickering of the fire was pretty nice, now that she no longer feared for her hair. She turned around and tried to dry her bottom in the warmth.

"Yeah, eh?" said Charlie. He was looking at her with his eyebrows raised, inclining his head toward the fire. It took her a minute to realize that he was seeking her approval.

"Uh...big," she said. "Big fire. Good job, Ch—Dad."

Charlie smiled smugly. "You know," he said, "this is why I became a cop."

"So you could arrest people for building a fire this big?"

"No, because I _got_ arrested for building a fire this big."

"What?"

"It was me and Harry. We must have been nine or ten years old." And he told her the story of how his parents had been picnicking on the beach when he met Harry. The two of them decided to see just how big they could make a fire. Spent all afternoon piling up fuel. Squirted four cans of mosquito spray on it and tossed the cans into the center.

"I guess my parents thought we were building a fort. I mean, it was the size of a school bus before we lit it—"

"Wait," said Bella. "The size of a school bus?" This sounded like one of his fish stories. "How could your parents not notice this?"

"Well, maybe it was the size of a VW bus. And I think they were just happy to see me making a friend. We had only moved here that summer."

Once the boys set it ablaze, it didn't flare up right away. It smoldered slowly, burning at one end while Charlie's parents ate sandwiches and waded along the shore. By the time they noticed their son's "fort" was on fire, it was impossible to extinguish.

"They came running up the sand," Charlie laughed. "And then they just stood there. What could they do?"

Bella had never imagined her father as a little hoodlum before. The sun was going down, an orange ball out on the water that mirrored the great blaze on the shore. She watched her father's face in the glow, thinking that it was a long time since he had smiled very much, too. This was good. Good to see him like this.

"When the flames hit those mosquito spray cans," said Charlie, "they just—zoom!—they just shot out of the fire. Like rockets! And my momma screamed for us to get down, and they just kept coming, bang, bang, bang, bang! All four of 'em." Charlie was waving his arms to imitate the shooting cans. "We had our faces in the sand, laughing so hard we couldn't get up. Ah, shit, that was funny."

Then he explained how someone living near the shore had seen the fire, heard the explosions and the shouting, and had called Billy's father.

"He sentenced us to beach clean-up for the rest of the summer, which my parents agreed with. After a few weeks of driving back and forth every day, they started letting me stay with Harry's family overnight now and then. Spent every day on the beach, and when it was clean we did some trail maintenance. Met Billy, Quil Sr., Josh Uley. By the end of the summer, I was practically living here."

She had never heard the story of how her father had come to have so many friends in La Push before.

"Funny thing," said Charlie. "I spent so much time here that I didn't meet many Forks kids before school started. They already had their friendships, and I...well, I guess I always fit in better out here. Still do."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she just leaned against his side. Charlie put his arm around her, and they stood looking at the fire while it got dark around them.

Twenty-four hours ago, Bella could not have imagined this moment. Talking with her dad, feeling like she could go to school tomorrow and have a friend in Angela and Mike, a friend in Jacob, and get through the day without breaking down or having to hide behind a self-constructed wall of numbness.

What had changed? Was Billy right that she would not have hit bottom if he hadn't scared the crap out of her? Or was it the deer nightmare, imagining her terror through another lens? Was it the sight of her father like a corpse on the living room floor this morning? The promises she and Charlie had made each other?

Or was it the hope that had been blurring together for her from unexpected sources? Seeing Edward's face in the fog of Port Angeles, a living memory. Mike's unassuming friendship—_oh my gosh, he had probably been covering her blunders at work for a long time without her noticing._ And Jacob, who never asked painful questions, who was always cheerful and smiling.

All of those things, she guessed. Nothing could change her love for Edward. But she would try to feel better, for Charlie. And maybe for herself. Today, being physically and emotionally exhausted, she felt better than she had in ages. She was honestly a little scared to return to feeling so crappy. _I guess it's bad when the aftermath of a vomit-inducing, doppelganger deer dream—slash—crying marathon feels **better** than usual..._

A soft hissing sound distracted her from her thoughts. The dark blob of her comforter was steaming now. White vapor rose into the dark sky. The flames began licking at the comforter where it dangled down closest to the fire. She could see the purple fabric singe and blacken, and then the white fiber filling glow orange as the fire spread. Above the blaze, a column of smoke widened and billowed.

The comforter took a while to burn. It stoically endured the flames a lot longer than she imagined it might have. And amazingly, the smoke seemed to take on a tinge of sickly grayish lavender. _Must be some dye in the fabric,_ she thought. And it smelled faintly sweet, like a hot apple pie baking, only it was a hot pie of something entirely different and revolting.

"My God," said Charlie. "It stinks worse."

They stepped back from the fire and Bella blushed in the darkness, thankful that there were no other witnesses to the fetid, flaming spectacle that had been her life lately.

Then she noticed four people running toward them along the beach. They were coming pretty fast, and shouting.

_Maybe they were racing,_ she thought. _Or maybe it was the Quileute odor patrol come to arrest her for befouling the beach. In some intergenerational Swan family tradition of messing up the rez, she would be carted before Billy for punishment._

Before they reached the fire, one of the people slipped off into the trees that lined the beach, and the remaining three approached.

At first she thought they were teenage boys, but as they came into the firelight, Bella decided they were men, young Quileute men with sharp, hard faces. They were dressed too lightly for the weather, so they must have been jogging for some time to have worked up the body heat needed against the cold. All were tall and broad shouldered, with muscles that stretched their T-shirts tight across their chests. Taller than her father, and she knew he was five foot ten. Their faces were wild, their eyes darting in every direction, as they circled the fire. She leaned closer to her father and snuggled against his side. The men were eyeing the smoke and the comforter. And Bella didn't like the way they were looking at _her_ at all.

Charlie, however, seemed pleased to see them. "Sam!" he said, addressing the tallest guy. "How are you?"

Sam introduced his friends, Paul and Jared. Those two seemed too preoccupied with the fire to make small talk.

"You remember Sam, don't you Bella?" Charlie was saying.

She looked at him appealingly. No?

"Ah, well, I guess you wouldn't. Sam's the one who, uh, found you. That night."

Bella looked at Sam again and felt a shock of recognition. Despite the heat rolling off the fire, she shivered as she remembered the dark eyes and hard chest of the man who had appeared so miraculously where she lay crumpled in the forest. He had carried her away from her last connection with Edward. _What was she supposed to say now, nice to meet you?_

"Nice to meet you," she mumbled.

Paul and Jared seemed like they were trying to assess the pollution levels of purple dye while Sam asked her father in a whisper how Bella had been feeling. _Subtle,_ thought Bella._ I can totally hear that. I'm not some fragile bunny that can't stand somebody asking about... Oh. Yeah. She kind of was. Or at least, she had been acting that way since... September. Was this how she appeared to everyone?_

Before she could catch Charlie's answer, though, Paul spoke to her. "Whatcha burning?"

In the flickering orange light, this guy looked a little scary. His whole body seemed tense, ready to run or fight—or mock her, she feared, judging by his gleaming sneer in the firelight. "Um, it's my bedspread." She was kind of whispering, hoping the guy wouldn't hear her and would lose interest in conversing with her.

But he repeated quite clearly, "Your bedspread?" and he seemed kind of shocked. "You mean that was in your _house_?"

"Well, yeah. It was on my bed."

"Your_ bed?_" he repeated. "How long?"

"I don't know," she said. "About a year."

"A year? A_ whole year?_"

This guy seemed to have some kind of problem. Sure enough, Paul started shaking.

"Paul! Go!" barked Sam, and Paul took off into the forest.

Weird. Then it got weirder.

"_Why_ are you burning it?" Jared asked, and when she turned pink and declined to answer, he grabbed the end of a long stick from the fire and began poking at the charred comforter like he was inspecting it. "What's all this crap on here?" he pressed.

Charlie, ever helpful, explained that she had been ill.

But Jared still looked perplexed, so she said, a little angry now, "I threw up on it, okay?" and instead of wishing her well or offering sympathy, like any normal person would do, he laughed and offered her a high five.

"Awesome," he said.

Bella glared at his hand until he lowered it. _What kind of dimwit wanted to congratulate her for getting sick?_

"Sorry," said Jared.

They all stood around for another hour or so, watching it burn to embers. Before they went home, they kicked sand over the coals and Charlie pulled Sam aside for a little lecture. Bella could hear him saying that Billy had often mentioned Sam as a respectable young leader in La Push, so maybe he should try to get some help for Jared and Paul, since those two seemed to be on drugs. Sam thanked Charlie for the advice.

At home, Bella showered again to get the weird, purple-smokey smell off her, and Charlie pulled a couple of Grandma Swan's patchwork quilts out of a cedar chest in the attic. They had been stitched by hand, she could see, and they smelled fresh and clean from the cedar and an old lavender sachet that they had been stored with. She could hardly remember her grandmother, but she felt a sense of familial connectedness as she snuggled under the quilts. She slept without nightmares, without feeling cold.

In the morning, Bella felt surprisingly clear-headed and refreshed, like a heavy fog that had lain on her for months had finally lifted.

* * *

><p>Author's Note Again: Indulge me.<p>

Okay, I created some sort of emotional progress for my character in only nine chapters! That's got to be a new record of slowness. ;-)

Next chapter: Bella goes to school, where she hangs out with the Forks gang and is inspired to write her first angsty song with her guitar. And _somebody_ has to be Mr. Horowitz's partner at the retirement home. Who should it be? Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

Please leave me your thoughts in a review! They really matter to me. I especially hope you will tell me which parts you think are funny; that would be super helpful and gratifying.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

**Gone with the Werewolf**

_Author's note:_ _Thanks to Cara Mia, a reader who wondered if my Vera character would turn out to be Rosalie Hale's friend from her human life. To others who may have wondered the same, I must confess that I made an error. I chose the name Vera because it was popular when my character would have been born, and I forgot there was already a canon character with that name. Big Oops. My Vera is a new character._

_I missed my weekly update goal again and it took me two weeks to complete this chapter. However, it is again twice as long as usual. I hope that makes up for the delay. Same deal: sleepless baby. I think she's teething._

* * *

><p>Charlie shoved a bowl of cereal at her when she came downstairs Tuesday morning. While she choked it down under his heavy supervision, he made a show of pulling her boxes of Poptarts out of the cupboard and dropping them in the trashcan, one by one:<em> thud, thud, thud.<em>

"I made you a sandwich," he said, handing her a small paper bag. "And here's a quarter; buy some milk at lunch."

"It costs a dollar ten now, Dad. You graduated when, 1925?"

"Jeez. Inflation. And I was Class of '85, Miss Smarty-Pants." Charlie pulled a dollar bill out his wallet, muttering about the "God-damned Democrats" and their "cows' rights campaign."

Though she had awakened fairly refreshed, by the time Bella wrestled the parking gear into place in the lot behind Forks High, her stomach was churning like a barrel of eels. Through the rain-spattered windshield, she watched students heading into the building. Jocks in their letter jackets with white leather sleeves. Freshmen with their huge, heavy backpacks. People were laughing, running through the puddles, and she felt like she didn't recognize them. Though she'd been here a year, she had been so wrapped up in the presence and absence of Edward that this felt like the first day of school all over again. Would she see a friendly face anywhere?

She slid to the ground and leaned against her truck's door to shut it. In the oversized rectangular mirror, she caught a glimpse of her face: pallid, with limp brown hair and bags under her eyes like purple bananas. _Attractive_, she groaned to herself. She smoothed her hair over the chunky bandage that covered the stitches on her forehead and, hitching her bag high on her shoulder, she followed the crowd indoors.

Mrs. Goff handed back a quiz in first period Spanish. She'd gotten a D on it. Pretty good, considering she didn't even remember taking this quiz. When a worksheet was passed around, the kid in front her her ignored her outstretched hand and placed on one her desk before reaching around her to the next person. She looked down at the worksheet on her desk. How long had _that_ been going on?

English class was the same. She discovered she'd been assigned to work in a group to give a presentation on elements of the Gothic in _Jane Eyre_, and three kids dragged their chairs toward hers and then proceeded to talk around and through her. What was her task for this group? It seems they'd not given her one. What were these kids names? They were just carrying her along on the current of their work like a leaf along for the ride in a stream. At one point, she raised her hand to answer a question, but Mr. Berty didn't notice. No one noticed.

In the next class, she watched her Calculus teacher mark her absent.

When the bell rang for lunch, she wasn't nervous anymore. No one would make fun of her since apparently, they couldn't even see her. As she carried her paper bag lunch into the cafeteria where she had first seen the Cullens, the memory of that day felt like a dream she'd had a long, long time ago.

Rain pattered on the roof and dripped down the windows as she stood in line to buy milk. She watched other students weave between the tables, smiling and joking, carrying trays of salad, steaming state-issue pizza squares, cans of Coke, bags of chips, and a few paper bags of lunch from home. The sight was almost overwhelming after so many months of not seeing it. So many people. So many colors, churning and blurring with the movements of the students. Jackets and scarves and hats in shades of brown, black, blue, and gray. Blue jeans and sweaters and hoodies in every color. Dingy white tennis shoes and brown and tan lace-up boots, backpacks in green and brown and even zebra stripes. Above this sea of color were the faces of the students in pink and brown and tan. Unbidden, the words of Ezra Pound's "In a Station of the Metro" came to her mind: _The apparition of these faces in the crowd;/ Petals on a wet, black bough._ She could almost feel the crush of the subway's throng that must have inspired Pound.

She bought a carton of milk like Charlie had told her to and scanned the room, spotting Angela's shiny dark hair and lumpy magenta scarf with a sigh of relief.

The same old gang sat at the table with Angela: Mike, Jessica, Tyler, and Eric. But there were a couple of girls and another boy she didn't recognize. Lauren, she noted with relief, seemed to be absent. Bella sat beside Angela and kept her eyes on the table as she unpacked her lunch from the paper bag. It rustled so loudly that she wanted to kill the bag for drawing attention to her. In fact, she realized it was rustling loudly because the table had gone silent. She looked up. Everyone was staring at her like she was a feral dog they were hoping to lure into an animal control truck.

Bella froze, one hand in the bag. Then Angela grabbed her free hand under the table and gave it a squeeze, and Mike grinned at her.

"Hey," he said. "You're having lunch with us."

"Like always, I guess."

"No," said Mike. "I mean, you're _having lunch_ with us." He pointed to her food.

_Oh._ She didn't know what to say to that.

"Careful," said Mike, and she looked down to see she had squished part of her sandwich in her nervous fist.

"Oops," she said.

The conversation started up again, and Bella tried to follow. She made herself munch her sandwich and follow each speaker with her eyes. Everyone was talking about dates for the spring fling dance. She gathered that a couple of the kids she didn't know were called Katie and Connor, and that Ben and Angela had broken up a couple weeks ago because his family had moved to Baltimore.

"I'm thinking of asking Lauren," said Tyler, "but she'll probably shoot me down."

Jessica turned to him with a matter of fact air and said, "No offense, okay, but she totally will."

She explained that she and Lauren had started hanging out with some guys from the community college in Port Angeles. "It's nice to finally meet some sophisticated, adult_ men_ who actually know how to treat a girl." These last words and their eye-rolling emphasis seemed directed at Mike, who crushed his can of Sprite in one hand and took his lunch to the trashcan.

"What?" said Tyler. "But just last weekend she and I—"

"Sorry," said Jessica.

"So no more—"

"Oh, I'm sure you're still on her list," Jessica assured him.

This information did not seem to make Tyler feel better. "She has a list?"

Katie's eyes widened, and Eric, who had been whispering to her about the dance, looked a little uncomfortable.

Mike returned then and asked in a loud voice, "So, Bella, what's new?"

_Ack!_ She swallowed a lump of sandwich and tried to think of something to say. _Um, I've been crying a lot lately._ No. _I barfed on my bed and my father took me to the beach to burn..._ No. _I hallucinated an image of my vampire ex-boyfriend while riding a motorcycle and I launched myself into a boulder while my new best friend who has an unrequited crush on me took the blame for my obsessive and self-destructive mental illness._ Definitely not. She looked from face to face at the lunch table, noting Katie's curiosity, Mike's encouragement, Angela's compassion, and Jessica's lack of faith that she could have anything to say.

"I, uh..." _This was another sign that she needed to get better, right? The fact that she couldn't think of anything socially acceptable to contribute to a lunch conversation._ Finally, with relief, she thought of something. "I got a guitar."

"Cool," said Mike, like it hadn't cost her about a month of her life to think of something to say. Then he, Eric, and Tyler started talking about a rock band that they wanted to form, and the conversation stayed on music until the bell rang.

* * *

><p>Bella arrived home at dinner time feeling exhausted, but cautiously optimistic. She had made it through the rest of school without incident, and Mrs. Kranz, who turned out to be a plump woman with lots of freckles and faded strawberry blonde hair, actually noticed her when she raised her hand to ask a question. Mrs. Kranz beamed at her like she was a first grader who had learned to tie her shoe, which was a little embarrassing, but it seemed like this teacher actually cared if she showed up and participated. After school at Newton's, Mike's mom seemed surprised to see her show up on time and also gave her a big smile. She caught Mike re-shelving some men's hiking boots she had put in the kid section, and she was able to thank him for cleaning up after her for so long.<p>

That night Charlie showed her a new chord on the guitar, D major. She sat beside him on the couch and rocked her hand back and forth between D and G, practicing the finger positions. Strum, _strummmm_... She let the sounds resonate. The chords were like a seesaw of happy and happier; it was ridiculous how cheerful they sounded, each brighter than the one before. She played for an hour or so in a kind of musical meditation.

When Charlie went to wash the dishes, she tried singing with the chords—very quietly: "hmm, _hmmmmm_..." Adding her voice increased that soothing vibration inside her body. She still sounded just as squeaky and goose-like as the other day, but she could hum without embarrassing herself. It felt good.

She went to bed when her fingers started throbbing and slept again without nightmares.

* * *

><p>Wednesday was tougher. When Bella entered the cafeteria, she could see Lauren Mallory's blonde head gleaming at the lunch table. Her hair was a new, lighter shade and cut in an edgy bob. Bella steeled herself as she slipped into her chair beside Angela.<p>

Lauren was describing how her mother had taken her to a chic new salon in Port Angeles while she was out sick. She tossed her head with a practiced air that sent her platinum hair fanning across her shoulders. Bella could still smell the chemicals.

"Love it," gushed Jessica.

"I told my mom it made me feel lots better—that, and knowing that I was missing the French test yesterday! I got it rescheduled for Friday, and now I have three more days to study."

"Good one," said Tyler. "Let me hear your cough."

"_Ah heh! Ah heh!_" feigned Lauren in a wispy voice. "I'm soooo sick, Madame Wells."

The gang cracked up, and the talk turned to college applications. Eric had applied to Hopkins, early decision, and been admitted.

"Way to go, Eric" smiled Katie, as he stood on his chair, bowing to the cafeteria.

"I'm hoping for Stanford," said Jessica.

"UCLA, baby," said Lauren. "My aunt works in admissions."

"Ugh, I just barely got all my stuff in the mail last week," groaned Mike. "Bella, where did you apply?"

"Well..." Everyone was looking at her. "I haven't really, decided, um..." Her heart began to pound as she watched the expressions on their faces change from mild interest to confusion and worry. Except for Lauren. Her face lit up with malicious hilarity.

"Oh my God!" she gasped. "You haven't applied anywhere!"

"Damn," said Tyler. "It's probably too late."

Bella struggled for a response.

"Crazy," said Jessica. "I knew you were crazy. After that stunt in Port Angeles."

"Hah!" spat Lauren. "The zombie movie. I heard about that. And it's so you, the way you've been staggering around here, not even applying to college."

"I thought you were in a coma," said Tyler. "Like on _General Hospital_."

"People in comas can't walk," snorted Lauren. "But the zombie thing is perfect. You've even got stitches on your head. You're like, Franken-Bella!"

Bella touched her fingers to her bandage as everyone but Angela and Mike laughed. Then Lauren held her arms stiffly in front of her, flexing them up and down from her shoulders in imitation of the classic horror film. "Brains!" she groaned. "I need some brains so I can apply to college."

Lauren and Jessica leaned into one another, giggling.

"No, no!" gasped Jessica. "I got it." She held out her out arms and moaned, "Boobs! I need some boobs for my lumberjack look."

Bella's face burned as she stared down at her shapeless, plaid flannel shirt and jeans.

"No, wait!" Lauren was practically choking on her glee. "Booooobs! I need some boobs for my boyfriend!" Then she cut the goofy voice and said flatly, "Oh wait. _You haven't got one anymore_."

The table went silent.

Bella's head roared with the pounding of her own blood. Her trembling hands blurred in front of her, then her vision cleared as two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She pushed her chair back and stood shakily.

Angela put a hand on her arm, but she didn't feel it as she turned and headed toward the door. _One, two, three, four..._ she counted her steps, slow and careful, and she clutched her middle. It felt like the whole school was looking at her. She could hear hushed voices at the table behind her: a "cut it out" from Mike and a "why do you care?" from Jessica.

In the girls' locker room behind the gym, the old one that hadn't been renovated and was only used by freshmen now, Bella locked the door of a bathroom stall and slid down the wall. Crying in bathrooms was beginning to feel all too familiar lately. She rubbed the heels of her hands in her eyes and tried to think of something to soothe herself: Charlie hugging her on the weekend when she had been so sad. The way her guitar felt vibrating against her belly. Jacob flicking peas at her, his promise to drive her around in the Rabbit.

She let the tears come and bitterly congratulated herself on remaining relatively upright. _Charlie would be so proud of my progress,_ she thought. _Crying in the bathroom without putting my face on the floor._ She reached for some toilet paper and blew her nose. Then she started crying again as she realized she was now so snotty and puffy-faced that if anyone in the cafeteria hadn't caught her blubbering, babyish exit, they'd be able to tell she was a mess as soon as she showed her face in class.

She leaned agains the water tank of the toilet, resting her face on the cool porcelain. It was chilly and refreshing, firm and solid. And it felt soothingly familiar.

"Oh, Edward," she sighed. "Why did you have to go?"

* * *

><p>After a while a pair of black ballet flats and white polka-dotted leggings appeared beneath the door of the bathroom stall.<p>

"I've been looking all over for you," said Angela.

Bella sniffed in reply.

"When we were in third grade," continued Angela, "Lauren broke all the green crayons in my Crayola 64 box because I said it was my favorite color. Lime green, yellow green, forest green, teal green, even blue green. Oh, and she broke the pink one called "Watermelon," I guess because the outsides of watermelons are green."

Bella watched Angela shift from side to side on her feet, like she was about to say something that was hard for her. Sure enough: "I don't like to talk bad about people, but I think...well... I think there's something wrong with her."

"You think?" said Bella, but she opened the door and gave Angela a weak smile.

Then she went to the sink and washed her face.

"Why are you still friends with me?"

Angela looked confused.

"I mean, I ignored everyone when Edward was here, and I've barely spoken to anyone since he left. So really, I don't—" Bella drew in a shaky breath as she realized the truth of this "—I don't deserve a friend," she whispered.

"Honestly?" asked Angela.

Bella nodded, and they sat down on one of the varnished pine benches by the old lockers.

Angela picked at her chipped pink fingernail polish. "Before you came here," she said, "I was kind of lonely."

"But you're so nice. Everyone likes you."

"I guess." Angela was looking at the bench. "But I don't have a best friend. Or any close ones, really. I mean, I've known everyone in this town since kindergarten, and I just don't..." She sighed. "I never told anybody this. I feel so weird. But I used to go to slumber parties with them, you know, Jess and Lauren and everyone, and I'd just be thinking the whole time, 'This is so dumb. I hate pajamas. I hate doing my hair. I'd rather be reading.' Lame, right?"

"No," said Bella.

"Then you moved here, and I could tell you were more like me. Quiet. Smart. You like to read. And I hoped we could be friends really bad." Angela picked at the scratched surface of the bench where, years ago, someone had carved a heart. "So, yeah. I'm not being nice to you for no reason. This is totally selfish here." She lifted her head with a cautious smile.

"You want to be friends?" Bella said. "With me?"

"Yeah."

Bella had a sudden urge to hug Angela, but thought it might be too much. So she kicked her little ballet shoe lightly with her own scuzzy Chucks. "That would be good," she said. "Thanks."

"Come on. We have to go."

Bella stood up and looked in the mirror. _No worse than usual, _she supposed.

Angela held open the heavy door of the locker room and they stepped out into the hall. It was quiet and empty as they walked down the corridor. Angela explained that Bella had already missed Physics and most of gym class. Now they just had to get ready for History.

"What am I going to do?" Bella sighed.

"About what?"

"College. Lauren." _My crazy self..._

"Well, it might not be too late. And you can always go to Peninsula for a year or two. Or take a gap year. And as for Lauren, just try to ignore her. That's what I do."

Bella could feel her face going hot again as she remembered what Lauren had said in the cafeteria. She wiped the back of her hand across her nose, sniffing.

The bell rang and people thronged in the hallway. They hurried to Mrs. Kranz's classroom, where she was handing out photocopied pages of suggested questions to start their Seniors with Seniors interviews.

"How many of you have already been to Olympic Acres?"

Only Angela raised her hand.

"Not good, people. Now I want all of you to meet your Seniors by the end of the week. If you need directions, write this down."

Mrs. Kranz began scratching out a map on the blackboard. Her wide backside wiggled as she wrote. Some of the guys snickered, and Mrs. Kranz turned around and leaned against the blackboard with her arms folded.

"Is something funny, Mr. Crowley?" she asked.

"No, ma'am."

"I didn't think so."

When she turned around to finish her map, there was chalk dust on her pants. Tyler had to put his head down to muffle his amusement.

"Um," called Lauren, "I was absent. What's this Senior thing?"

Mrs. Kranz waddled to her desk and rustled among papers as she explained. Lauren looked just about as thrilled as Bella at the prospect of spending weeks interviewing some crusty stranger.

"I just need to find the last of those cards," Mrs. Kranz said. A couple of books slid from her desk onto the floor. In bending to retrieve them, the neckline of her shirt dipped low, revealing her overly ample, freckled bosom and a rather industrial-looking wide-strapped white bra. Her flesh jiggled as she reached under the desk for the books.

Mike slapped Tyler's arm, and Tyler lifted his head, took one look, and had to put it down again. His shoulders shook.

Angela looked pained.

Lauren turned around in her seat and sneered at Bella. "You should ask to borrow some," she whispered, lifting her hands in front of her own chest as if she were jiggling an enormous pair of breasts.

Bella flushed.

When the teacher stood up, her hair was awry and one of her earrings looked like it was about to fall out of her ear. "Well, I just can't find those cards!" she said. "Angela, do you still have those extras from Monday?"

Angela gave her a single card, explaining that she and Bella had already chosen their Seniors, so there was just one person left.

Mrs. Kranz took the last index card and held it up to her glasses. "Oh!" she said. Pulling a thick marker from her desk drawer, she blacked out some of the writing. "Here's your partner, Lauren," she said.

Bella and Angela shared a smirk.

Lauren held the index card to the light and tried to read beneath the dark marker. Then she turned in her seat and narrowed her eyes at them.

* * *

><p>Home again, Bella dropped her backpack on the floor and trudged upstairs to her room. The stuff Lauren had said at lunch still hurt. Why did she have to be so mean? <em>Maybe I'm just not ready for this. School. Awareness.<em> Almost without thinking, she lifted her guitar and sat down on her bed. Her fingers easily found the position for G major, and her strumming soothed the tightness in her stomach.

Bella practiced switching back and forth between G and D. Maybe her grandma was right. Guitar therapy was helping. _Nasty Lauren_, she thought as she strummed the G. _Mean, dumb girl,_ she thought as she switched to D. She's so mean she's practically psycho.

Wait a minute. Those chords.

She strummed a D and sang, "Psycho, heartless, high school... " _Oh, go on and say it. No one will hear._ "...bitch!" Bella whispered. Then she strummed a G. "Mean old..."

_Something better..._

She grabbed a piece of paper and began scribbling. Then she tried again. "Skanky, slutty, dyed-hair witch." Back to the D: "You try to make my life the pits..." G. "I hope you get a million zits."

Or maybe, "Have fun with Mr. Horowitz."_ Yeah..._

She sat cross-legged on her bed, on her grandma's quilt, with the Swan family church-guitar (she figured her dad had already committed sacrilege by singing his own songs on it), and made up several verses. Rhyming was something she was good at; who knew? And this felt way better than her usual method of dealing with problems. Charlie was gonna save so much money on tissues.

She was trying to find a rhyme for "spoiled whore" when the doorbell rang. Angela.

* * *

><p>Bella was really glad she came to the old folks' home with Angela. If she hadn't been able to follow her friend's feet as they walked through the corridors, Bella would have been bumping into the walls; she refused to lift her head in case she saw an old person with a "condition." She really wasn't sure what a "condition" meant, but in the books she read, most of the old characters had one of some sort. As it was, keeping her vision confined to anything knee level or lower, she saw plenty to make her skin crawl: wheelchairs inhabited by scuffed slippered feet, an open cupboard with some bandages inside, a meal cart with half-eaten pasta and steamed vegetables slopping off of trays, with plastic cups of syrupy fruit chunks, and hems of curtains in doorways, which were probably hiding old, wrinkly, naked people. The white linoleum shone with the twin reflected lines of the overhead florescent lights, and she followed Angela's little shoes along this path.<p>

"Albertine and Vera are roommates," Angela said.

_Excellent._ Now she could stay with her friend the whole time.

At last they turned into one of the many identical chambers and lifted the heavy curtain from the doorway.

"Hello, Albertine!" Angela called. "How are you today?"

Bella hovered in the doorway while Angela bent over a little white-haired lady in a mauve colored armchair and hugged her. Albertine put down a ball of yarn and reached up to pat Angela with skinny white hands. Bella was startled by the brightness of the blue veins that ran across them. _Surely this wasn't part of the assignment, letting the old people hug her?_

"Hello, Vera!" said Angela, and Bella noticed a second little white-haired lady bundled under a heap of knitted afghans on her bed, which had been raised at the top portion to allow Vera to sit upright. "Let me introduce you to Bella."

Angela took Bella's hand and towed her toward Vera's bedside. As she chattered through the pleasantries of the introduction, Bella kept her eyes on the afghans. Some were lacy; some were thick and heavy-looking. There must have been five or more layered on the bed. Three were mauve, one was a pale reddish violet, and one was what Renee would have called dusty rose.

Angela slid a folding chair across the floor for Bella. "Have fun!" she chirped, trotting back to Albertine's side. Bella listened to her admiring the latest creation from Albertine's knitting needles. It looked like a pillow case, and it was mauve.

Vera was indeed rather quiet, as Angela had mentioned. Sensing that she would have to take the lead in the interview process, Bella took a deep breath and made herself look around the room.

There were two beds, side by side, and some standard-issue wooden furniture: a chest of drawers, two nightstands, a small dining set near a window that looked out on a shady green lawn. But there were also more personal items that must have come from the women's homes before they moved to Olympic Acres: Albertine's mauve armchair, some white wicker bookcases laden with bodice-busting romance novels, framed photos of family members, she supposed, on the wall—lots of grandchildren—and a brown basket that looked like it was meant for a cat, but which was overflowing with skeins of yarn and books full of knitting patterns and craft ideas. In a tiny glass case on the dining table, there were a dozen or so even tinier glass animals that twinkled in the dappled sunlight.

"So," said Bella, pointing to the glass case. "You collect figurines?" She remembered reading that on the index card. When she got no reply, Bella continued with, "That must be—" _boring as dirt_ "—nice."

Vera turned her head and looked at Bella as if she'd just noticed she was there.

"Um, hi," said Bella.

Vera rolled her head away and looked out the window.

_I am so going to flunk this interview._

She listened to Angela and Albertine talking about how to avoid dropped stitches. Angela opened her backpack and pulled out a tangled mess of yellow yarn and two small metal spears that looked like lethal shish kebab sticks. The old lady examined Angela's work and asked her to bring one of the books from her basket for a few pointers.

"At school, we're doing this project," Bella began, talking to the tufty white hair on the back of Vera's pink head. It was a little alarming how much she looked like a tortoise that had rolled in wool. Bella took a another deep breath and averted her eyes. She opened her notebook and unfolded Mrs. Kranz's list of suggested questions. "It's about the Great Depression. I just need a pen."

She twisted in her seat to look for a pen on the beside table, and in doing so she elbowed a tray of tiny orange pill bottles. It toppled over, and naturally, half the bottles were uncapped. Medicines of various colors went skittering over the floor and under the beds.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry."

Bella crawled across the linoleum, scooping up pills in her hands. Some were round and white, some oval-shaped and tan. A few were large enough to be cough lozenges. Some were squishy blue gel-caps. All were mixed up in her lap by the time she fished them out from under the furniture. And all were broken, cracked, or dusty.

"Ooh, that's a mess," said Angela, ringing for a nurse.

A tired-looking woman with short, curly black hair arrived. Her name tag read, "Aurelia Tisdale," and she wore turquoise scrubs printed with cats and dogs snuggling together in an incongruous display of love that contrasted sharply with the expression on her face.

"Vera, I told you to keep those caps on," she said.

Vera sighed.

"It was my fault," Bella said. "We're doing this school project, and I—"

"Oh, you're one of those high schoolers. Gonna come back, I suppose." Aurelia frowned at Bella as she took the medicines from her cupped hands. "I hope her insurance is going to cover the replacements," grumbled the nurse as she left.

Angela, Albertine, and Vera looked glumly at Bella.

"Sorry," she said again.

By the time they left, Bella was feeling about two feet tall. She had tried to go through Mrs. Kranz's interview questions with Vera, but the old woman made no response. Once Bella thought she was about to speak, but she was just coughing. Bella tried talking about herself, how she had lived in Arizona, how her father worked here in Forks, but after a few minutes of awkward monologue, Vera fell asleep.

This assignment was hard.

Angela and Albertine were still chattering away, so Bella took out her notebook and wrote down what little she could. _Vera Moss. Born January 25, 1920. Collects little glass animals. Plays piano sometimes._ That much she knew from the card. She tried to add her own observations. _Very quiet. Sleepy. Has several afghans, perhaps knitted by her roommate? Requires lots of pills, which I spilled._ Here she drew a frowny face. _Has blue eyes and white hair, but not much. Not sure if the pictures on the wall are her grandchildren. Some are probably Albertine's. There are—_ she counted _—eleven kids' pictures on the wall._

When Bella could think of nothing else to write, she doodled a pattern of stars in her notebook, and after a while she doodled on her shoe.

Finally Angela was ready to go. As they walked out to the parking lot, Angela said, "Oh my gosh, I didn't get a single interview question done."

"Me neither."

"She's going to teach me so much about knitting—and if I get good at it, we'll move on to crochet."

Bella could think of little that sounded duller, except maybe watching Vera sleep. Nevertheless, she said, "That's great," and she tried to sound sincere. After all, she reflected, she was lucky to have Angela as her friend after months of ignoring her, and Angela had helped Bella navigate the old folks' home without her having to see any more old folks than was absolutely necessary. She was also thankful that it hadn't been, as she had feared, like looking into a mirror of her own decrepit future; it was just boring. And after nearly getting killed by vampires a few times, having a human friend and a normal human problem like a doomed history project were utterly, blissfully refreshing in their dullness.

* * *

><p>"Jake called," said Charlie when she got home. He was straining spaghetti noodles in a colander over the sink. "Better call him back quick because dinner's almost ready."<p>

As she listened to the ringing at the other end of the phone line, Bella prayed that Billy wouldn't answer. Luckily, he didn't.

Jacob said, "Hello?" and just the sound of his voice made her smile. It was getting deeper, she noticed.

They made plans to get together on Thursday afternoon for homework. When he talked about working on the same subjects they had studied on Sunday, she knew he meant the bikes. "I cleaned up that oil in the garage where you slipped, so no more stitches, okay? I borrowed a floor protector for you."

"A floor protector? What's that?"

"You know. It's a thing. That protects the floor." He paused. "For safety."

"Oh! Okay." _He must be talking about a helmet._ "Good idea," she said. "Billy's listening, isn't he?"

"You're really helping me with that Shakespeare. I got a B on my paper."

"You got a big old B in your living room, I bet. Smooth, Jake. See you tomorrow."

When she hung up, Charlie was taking a jar of supermarket red sauce out of the microwave. He slopped some over the pasta and asked if Jake had said anything about his birthday.

"No. Why?"

"Billy invited us to a little party for him on the weekend. It's a surprise."

"Mums the word," she said.

Despite its appearance and origins, Charlie's spaghetti was decent. She managed to get about half a plate down, and Charlie smiled at her across the table. "Glad you liked it," he said.

Then he explained that he had to take part of an evening shift that night. "I'll be back just after midnight. I know you don't sleep well, and I hate to leave you, but—"

"It's okay," she interrupted. "I've actually slept great the past few nights. And if I have any nightmares, I'll just wait up for you."

Bella carried the dishes to the sink and washed them. She fretted over her Spanish for a while and then bid goodbye to Charlie, who reminded her that she could reach him any time by calling the station.

"I'll be fine," she said.

He gave her one more smile, and she could see that he was proud of her for making an effort. He was looking a lot better than he had a few days ago, too. His skin had returned to a healthy color, and his eyes looked alive again. _Had she done that, just by resting well for a couple nights?_ She felt that tug of responsibility again, a family connection that reminded her of how she could affect others, for better or worse. It was a rope that bound her here, but it didn't feel like a restraint; it felt like a lifeline.

Now that she was putting some effort into school again, it was surprisingly easy to get organized again in the subjects in which she had fallen behind—except for Spanish. That would require some plain old memorization of at least three verb tenses and their irregular forms. She made a few flashcards.

Later, settling under her quilts, she thought about Vera. What was she going to do? _Maybe she could get reassigned to someone else._ She would ask Mrs. Kranz, who for some crazy reason seemed to like her.

She had not been asleep long before she woke, startled, with the knowledge that she was no longer alone. She lay perfectly still and and prayed for her eyes to adjust to the dim light of a street lamp outside. Someone was near.

Her heart pounded as she ran through the possibilities in her mind: her father home early; a thief; some high school pranksters on the lawn. She lay on her side, facing her closet and not the window, so if it were someone in the house she would..._Oh, no. The someone was outside her window._

She was certain of it in the way she would have been able to sense a person standing over her shoulder. A thief. The Swan house was about to get robbed. Should she get up? Scream? Run for the phone? Or lie still and hope to be overlooked? She had heard of relatively benign, non-violent robbers who simply stole things while the inhabitants of houses slept. She lay trembling with fear and indecision, waiting for the sound of breaking glass, until it occurred to her that any normal thief would force his way into a _downstairs_ window. And that meant—

_Edward?_

Her heart flooded with joy. _Edward!_ She was about to fling off her blankets and run to the window when another thought made her stiffen. It might not be Edward. It might be some other vampire. Any passing nomad could have caught her scent around town and followed her home. Edward had often told her that she smelled particularly appetizing.

Well, there was nothing to do then. She couldn't run or talk her way out of this. She willed her heartbeat to slow, hoping this might diminish the appeal of her fear and stave off the vampire's bloodlust long enough for her to reflect on her short life. _I'm glad Charlie's not home,_ she thought. _And I'm glad I got to experience love, even if he left me. Oh, Edward, my last thoughts will be of you..._

She waited. And waited. When nothing happened, she opened her eyes and relaxed her muscles. She heard a tiny, scratching sound. No, a _sniffing_ sound. A raccoon, perhaps? She lay perfectly still and strained her ears to listen. And that's when she realized there were _two_ someones at her window.

"Smells like shit," whispered one of them.

"Territory mark," said the other.

"Do you think he pissed on it?"

"Impossible. Drooled, maybe."

_What the hell?_ She had heard those voices before. It was those guys from the beach! Jared and his insane buddy Paul! Were they trying to climb in her window to rape her or something? She flipped over angrily and grabbed her copy of _Gone with the Wind_ from her nightstand. She could see the silhouettes of their heads now through her curtain; they were hanging from the windowsill by their hands and she would smash their stupid fingers with all one thousand, thirty-two hardbound pages.

Before she could reach them, the windowsill cracked right off the side of her house and they dropped to the grass, falling on top of each other with muffled curses.

Bella lifted the window and shouted, "Stay away from me, you creeps!"

They got up and ran into the forest behind her house, shoving each other as they went.

"I'll tell my father, and he'll shoot you!" she screamed after them.

_Well, for the love of Christmas cookies!_ This was just like when she had first moved to Forks and every boy at school wanted to ask her to the dance. What was it that made her so irresistible to vampires and mortals alike? In Phoenix she had been a nobody. And here, she felt like a piece of meat—sometimes literally. Now she had two more not-so-secret admirers to avoid. _Stupid boys._ She shut the window and locked it.

It would would be several weeks before she would wonder how those guys had reached her windowsill, why they were sniffing it, and why they had run into the woods instead of out to the street and, presumably, to their car.

Instead, she climbed back into bed and hugged her pillow tightly. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, she felt weary and heartsore because it hadn't been Edward returning for her. She felt a great wave of sadness rising up in her with its corresponding undertow of panic and nausea.

She tried desperately to think of something else, and landed on Jacob's birthday. _She would get him a present,_ she decided. He had rebuilt a pair of motorcycles for her, and a small birthday gift seemed only fitting. Something that showed that she really liked him. But not something romantic. Something that said she cared. But not too much. Something personal, but not... She sighed. _What would a teenage boy like Jacob want for his birthday?_

She blushed in the darkness. Where had_ that_ thought come from? Confused, she returned her thoughts to favorite memories of Edward. This was familiar territory, safe territory. And she should be loyal, like Anne Elliot. Or like Scarlett O'Hara, who loved Ashley, that paragon of dreamy virtue. Then she thought a little more about Edward's idea of virtue and felt more confused and a little angry.

_Darn it if she could sleep now._ She flipped on the lights and picked up her guitar. With tender finger tips, she carefully strummed her two chords, back and forth. She thought about Edward and his restraint. Her love for him and his leaving her. Scarlett O'Hara and Ashley Wilkes. _Tell me you love me, Ashley. I'll live on it the rest of my life._ Instead he had kissed Scarlett's forehead and said goodbye, maybe forever, going out into the rain and the war. _Tell me you love me._

Ashley was an ass, she concluded. She decided to think about Rhett Butler instead.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you, patient readers. Please, please comment in a review. I treasure your words.<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**Quality Time with Quil**

Rainfall on the roof of Jacob's garage drummed steadily throughout the afternoon. Bella had been sitting with him since school had let out, and with the fading light, it didn't look like they'd get to ride the bikes today. But that was alright, she thought. Just being here with Jacob was enough to blunt that familiar, hurtful urge to seek Edward's image. It could wait, as long as she had Jake's smiles to keep her mind off of it.

When she had arrived, dripping in the downpour, he'd lifted her up in his arms and twirled her in a kind of merry-go-round hug. He joked that it was just to get the raindrops off her coat. But then he'd peeled back her hood and pressed his face into her hair as she clung to him, dizzy.

"You smell like strawberries," he'd whispered.

"It's my shampoo," she lied. This statement was doubly untrue because she was now convinced that Charlie must be right about the Poptarts, and because she had not used that kind of shampoo since seventh grade. That bargain-brand red goop was just so junior high.

She sat on a bench seat that had once belonged in a minivan and Jacob offered her what little he could in terms of garage hospitality: an icy cold can of root beer. "Naturally chilled," he said, waving an arm around the garage. She sipped gratefully while he worked on the Rabbit. Through the window, she watched the rain fall in a shimmering gray veil that seemed to curtain them from the rest of the world.

A small space heater at one end of the building made a halo of warmth around it, like Billy's woodstove in the house. The garage seemed to have been a barn at some point, for it had two huge wooden doors that could swing outward and heavy, dark wooden beams for rafters. A raised platform in the back must have been a hayloft once—a wooden ladder leaned against it— and a couple of dusty kerosene lanterns, which looked like they hadn't been lit in ages, hung from the rafters. Higher up, near the peak of the roof, a few spiderwebs lingered, but for the most part Jacob kept the place neat. Garden tools hung from hooks along one wall, and a sturdy workbench, topped with an old formica countertop, anchored the far wall beneath the loft. Of course, the car and the bikes took up most of the floor space.

Bella had never spent time in such a place. It was a building with history; she could imagine Jacob's grandparents scratching out a small farm with a horse or two, and Billy keeping her old truck here during his driving days. She thought of Jake, Quil, and Embry joking around in here during the summers, laughing about cars and girls, or whatever else teenage boys talked about, and how this space was_ theirs_, separate from parents, teachers, homework, responsibilities. Jacob had invited her into his garage, but she knew by extension that he was sharing his family, his friends, his home. And, she realized with no small note of concern, this was the place where she felt most comfortable lately. _What did that mean?_

Jacob asked her to pass him a socket wrench, and she chose the right tool, having learned a few things about car repair in the last couple weeks. They talked comfortably as he worked. Bella felt alright telling him a little about her life in Forks; she described her worry about her history project and Vera the Silent, and her hope of renewing a friendship with Angela. But she couldn't trust herself to talk about her true worries: that Edward had left her because he had seen her worthlessness at last, and that her heart was permanently scarred, and that she was trying to live for Charlie's sake.

Jacob, however, was quick to trust her with his own problems. She found this quality in him rather baffling. He had lost his mother to a car accident, and his sisters had apparently ditched him with a domineering, invalid father, yet he remained the sunniest person she knew. Perhaps that was because his mother and sisters hadn't torn his heart out and trampled it on the ground when they went away; he knew they loved him. He talked about Embry, still very sick and missing from school, and Billy, who had been alternately distant and angry all week. Jacob's faith in her sympathy and discretion made Bella feel again like she belonged here, his trust in her weaving more anchoring ties that kept her grounded.

Sitting on the floor beside the Rabbit and tightening lug nuts, Jacob complained about Billy's erratic moods. "One minute he's staring out the window like he's going to cry," he said, "and the next he's snapping at me for asking if he's alright. Has he got PMS? If I hadn't dealt with twin teenage sisters, I wouldn't know how to handle him."

Despite the joke, Bella could see that he was truly worried. She told him what little she could about her own argument with Billy and his preoccupation with his family photo album.

"I'm sorry he laid into you," Jacob said. He looked up at her with serious, dark eyes. "I know you're...sad a lot. That can't have helped."

She shook her head.

"And I don't know what's up with the photos. I catch him looking at the album, but he puts it away when I ask about it."

"He's having some kind of fight with Charlie, too." Bella said. "I heard them yelling on Monday. Something about how he ought to think of you, tell you what's going on."

Jacob put the wrench down and shoved his hands through his hair. "Oh my God," he said. "Do you think he's sick? Why won't he talk to me?" Locking his fingers behind his neck and leaning forward on his knees, he squeezed his eyes shut.

Bella put her root beer down. Jake was...Jake was hurting. She knew that feeling. She could imagine how his guts must be twisting up with dread. A million thoughts ran through her mind at once: _Danger—scary emotions! Run before you start feeling that way, too._ Also,_ Crap, what do I do? Should I talk to him? Should I leave?_ And, _Jacob's never sad. I'm imagining this._ But even as her brain skittered through these thoughts, an impulse deep in her heart stirred to life after many months of dormancy: compassion. She knelt beside him. When he remained tightly curled in on himself, his eyes still shut, she hesitantly put her hand on his shoulder.

"Um," she said. _Crap, now what?_ She really wanted to say something nice and helpful. Jake had been so good to her. "Don't worry? He's okay... probably."

"I don't know. He's been acting so weird."

"Charlie said something about a secret. Maybe—" she thought about his birthday party on Saturday "—maybe it's a good secret."

Jacob looked up, but he wasn't smiling. "My dad doesn't keep good secrets."

The door thumped then, and they heard a voice call, "Yo, Jake, are you in there?"

"Just a minute!" Jacob yelled back. To Bella he said, "Shit, it's Quil." He stood and shook himself. He looked a little nervous, and Bella realized that he didn't talk about these things with Quil, with his other friends. "Please don't say anything about...my dad," he whispered.

"Okay," said Bella, settling herself on the minivan bench again.

Jacob rolled his shoulders and took a couple of deep breaths. Then he flopped down beside her and gave her an odd look, asking, "Do you think you could mess up your hair a little?"

"Why?"

"Never mind." Raising his voice, he shouted, "You can come in now."

The door was flung open and Quil stormed in, leaving big muddy footprints across the floor. "Nice of you to keep me standing in the rain, ass hat." Then he noticed Bella. "Oh!"

"Hi," she responded.

Quil stared between them for a moment, then grabbed Jake's arm and tugged him off the seat. "Dude, we gotta go."

"What? No." Jacob shook off Quil's wet hands. "As you can see, I'm kind of busy right now."

"No, man, we gotta go. I've seen Embry, and he's not sick." Quil described how he had just run into Embry at the store. As he talked, he became more and more agitated. He unzipped his anorak and shook his sopping curls. "He's not sick at all, and he's with _them_." Here he shot Jake a significant look and began pacing between the Rabbit and the door. "We have _GOT_ to go," he repeated.

"Fuck," said Jacob. He pulled open a drawer on his workbench and tossed his tools inside. "Sorry, Bella. This is bad." He started to put on his coat.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's Sam," said Jacob. "And his punk-ass friends, Jared and Paul."

"Hey, I know them," Bella said. "Those guys are weird."

"No shit," said Quil. "I tried to talk to Embry, but he wouldn't even look at me. And when I followed him outside, he was heading off into the woods. With them."

"Hiking?" said Jake. "Right now?" He looked out at the rain.

"I wish." Quil looked about ready to cry. "Come on, Jake. We've got to find him before they...before they...get him."

"What?"

"I've been thinking about it, man. It's not just a club. It's like... It's like the community block watch, Native pride, _gay_ club, okay?"

Bella raised an eyebrow at him.

"Which would be fine," Quil hastened to add, "except this is not consexual."

"Consensual?"

"Exactly. Think about it. Sam's like twenty-five or something—"

"Twenty-one," said Jake.

"—and he keeps hanging around the high school, waiting for boys, like Paul and Jared, who have been sick a long time and are struggling to catch up. They're vulnerable. He offers to tutor them or something, because the next thing you know, they're together all the time, working out all the time, showing off their oily muscles and wearing those tight shorts."

"Are you looking at their butts?"

"NO!"

"So what makes you think—"

"I just TOLD you! And now—"

Bella interrupted. "Quil, gay people don't lurk around high schools. I should know. My mom was gay for half of the nineties."

"Really?" said Jacob.

"Yeah. It was part of finding herself."

"Huh."

Jake and Quil looked at one another and Bella could almost imagine the question that was forming in their minds as an awkward silence fell in the garage.

"Charlie doesn't know," she said before they could ask. "So don't tell him. He'll just freak out."

"Okay..."

"Wait a minute," said Quil. "How do you know for sure? Did you witness this?"

"No! I was five. And they were nice ladies; it just didn't work out."

"Ladies, as in plural? Hot ladies?"

Jacob smacked Quil in the back of the head. "We were talking about Embry."

"Alright," said Quil. "Well, explain this." He drew in a breath like he was about to deliver devastating news. "Those guys—" he leveled Bella and Jacob with his most serious expression "—_wax their chests_."

Jake took off his coat and hung it back up on its hook. He regarded Quil from beneath his brow.

"Wait," said Bella. "I thought—" she blushed "—I thought Indians didn't have chest hair in the first place."

"Hollywood stereotype," replied Jake.

"Yeah," said Quil. "Allow me to educate the public." He shrugged off his coat and started to peel up his shirt.

"Ack!" cried Bella, drawing her knees up onto the minivan bench as if to protect herself from the sight. "I believe you. Sorry!"

Quil grinned at Jacob. "Damn, look how she turns pink! Hey, Bella, watch this." He lifted his shirt again and rippled his pudgy stomach like a slug climbing a tree.

Bella covered her face with her hands.

"Please," said Jacob. "You're making her sick. You got no chest hair yet anyway."

Quil lowered his shirt. "Fine. But I will. My grandpa is like the Silver Sasquatch." Then he noticed that Jake was no longer ready to leave. "Dude! What are you waiting for? We have to find Embry NOW. It's like fucking _Deliverance_ out there!"

Jacob just reached into a paper bag and pulled out another root beer. "I believe you about Sam and those guys getting to Embry. That's shitty, and yeah, we have to do something. But nobody is going to rape him." He tossed the soda at Quil.

"That's great, Jake." Quil caught the can in one hand without even looking, but he was too anxious to be impressed with himself. "I'll tell him you said that after he asks us why we didn't help."

"No, don't you remember? Sam and Leah. And Emily."

"Sam is with Leah?" Bella asked.

"Not anymore." Jacob explained how Sam had dated Leah for years before suddenly dropping her a few months ago for her cousin Emily, who, in some hideous karmic dispensation, had gotten her face mauled by a bear around the same time as she stole her cousin's boyfriend.

"That's horrible," said Bella. "The bear part and the two-timing."

"Yeah," said Jake. "I feel bad about what happened to Emily. But I think Sam must have been cheating with her for a while. I hate that fucker. Leah is so messed up."

"I don't know why I forgot about Sam and Leah," Quil said. The passenger door of the Rabbit creaked as Quil opened it and sat down inside the car. "I guess the chest waxing threw me off." He popped open the soda and took a long gulp.

"Keep your filthy feet out of my ride," said Jake, popping open his own can of soda. "Plus, Jared is dating that Kim girl, that freshman."

"Okay," conceded Quil with a belch. "Maybe you're right. But what about Paul? He's super pretty."

"You think he's pretty?"

"No! I mean, he's just really well-groomed. Good-looking."

Jake and Bella smirked at each other.

"I think _you're_ gay, Quil."

"Fuck you, man!"

"You want to fuck me? I'm flattered, but no thanks."

"Dammit!" It was Quil's turn to blush now. "I am not gay!"

"I don't know, Jake," said Bella. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"Ooh, Queen Gertrude!" said Jake. "Good one."

Jake offered her a fist bump and she felt inordinately proud of herself for not messing it up as she rapped his hand with her knuckles. Making fun of Quil was...well, fun.

"And," Bella added, returning to the subject, "I met Paul and Jared on the beach a few days ago, and later they..." She paused, remembering the crazy emotions that swirled through her when she had thought Edward was back and was miserably wrong. "Well, I don't know _what_ they were planning. But they came to my house in the middle of the night and tried to climb in my window."

"They what?"

Bella described how Charlie had been at work when she heard strange noises and had feared a burglary—or vampires, but she didn't mention that—and it had turned out to be those two weirdos, hanging from her windowsill and whispering who-knows-what to each other.

"They were peeping at you?"

"Or worse. I don't know what they had in mind. The windowsill broke, and they fell down and ran off."

"Did you tell your father?"

"No." She looked away from their astounded faces and rubbed the toe of her sneaker in an oily spot on the floor. "He's already too worried about me. I was just hoping they wouldn't come back."

Quil and Jake exchanged a look.

"We'll take care of it."

She looked up, confused.

"They're messing with Embry, and now they're messing with our girl. We're going to do something."

_I'm their girl?_ The thought was both comforting and worrisome.

"I don't think you should fight them. They look kind of mean. And huge. And I think that Paul guy is crazy. Like for real."

"He's just an ass. And we can take him. You'll see. They won't bother you again."

Quil and Jacob brainstormed ways to rescue Embry and get Sam's gang to back off. Bella watched the seriousness they put into their planning, though most of it sounded ill-concieved, and she felt strangely protected. She knew she was probably incompetently protected by doofy sixteen-year olds against hulking thugs, but nevertheless, she saw that Jake and Quil cared about what happened to her. She sipped her root beer, and it tasted even sweeter now.

The rain stopped as the last of the afternoon light still lingered on the horizon. There was still time for a quick ride before dinner. "You in?" asked Jacob.

Immediately her thoughts turned to Edward, and her heart beat its wings against the cage of her chest. "Yeah," she said. "Let's go."

Jacob stashed the bikes in the truck bed and went to tell his dad that they were going for a drive. When he was gone, Quil asked if Bella was coming to the surprise party on Saturday.

She nodded. "What do you think he wants for his birthday?"

Quill leaned on his arm against one of the posts in the garage and smiled naughtily at her. "Oh, I got a few ideas."

"Not happening."

"Well, fuck, then," he said, throwing up his hands. "I don't know." Then he leaned closer, a sudden hope pinkening his round face. "Wait, are you holding out for—"

"No."

"Because I—"

"No! N, O, no, no, no. I can't—just—no." She hurried to the doorway, looking for Jake.

There was silence behind her, and then Quil said airily, "Your loss." When she turned around, he was shuffling through a box of old nails on Jacob's workbench.

Bella bit her lip. _Why did Quil have to be so relentless?_

At last Jake came back, saying, "Your grandpa's in there with my dad. I think they're getting wasted."

Quil tossed the nails down with a curse. "God damn it. Now he's gonna snore on the couch all night."

"Or on my couch."

"Good luck sleeping, then. He snores like a fucking elk when he's drunk. Fuck, man, I got a test tomorrow." Quil thrust his arms into his jacket and stomped off through the puddles toward his house. He didn't look at Bella as he left.

* * *

><p>It wasn't like in the movies, when a dying person's life flashes before his eyes. Perhaps because she wasn't meant to die then, Bella only saw flashes of the last half hour: a bumpy ride along a coastal road, four Quileutes leaping from a cliff, their bodies plummeting straight as arrows to disappear in black water, Jacob's bitter smile as he recognized one of them as Embry. She saw the green trees whipping past, the yellow vortex of Edward's eyes, and then all was roaring, dust, speed, and pain. Her head thumped hard on the road and she remembered thinking how glad she was that Jacob had borrowed a helmet.<p>

When he knelt over her, the panic in his face matched the way she felt during her nightmares.

* * *

><p>Jake barreled up a gravel driveway to a low white house she'd never seen before. "Agh!" she gasped as he slammed on the brakes and the truck skidded sideways. She had to lean to one side to keep her left hip off the seat, and the T-shirt she was bleeding on had almost soaked through to the upholstery.<p>

He leapt from the truck and ran to the house. "Quil!" he shouted, banging on the door. "Quil!"

Bella managed to open the passenger door and hop down on her right foot. She leaned against the side of her truck, gritting her teeth, as Jake kept hollering.

"Oh, man, I hope his mom's still at work," he said to her. "I don't see her car."

At last the door opened. Quil looked somewhat sleepy and rumpled. "What the fuck, man?" he said. "I was studying." He looked Jake up and down, noting that he was bare-chested beneath his open jacket. "Where's your shirt?"

Jacob dragged him outside, and he snapped to alertness as soon as he saw the girl propped against the old truck, her face white and rigid with pain. The boys made a fireman's chair of their arms and carried her inside, down a dark hall with faux wood panelling, and into the bathroom.

"What happened?" Quil asked.

"Wipeout," said Jacob.

Bella hissed as they set her down. Jake tore off his jacket and knelt to get a better look at her injury. Just behind her hip joint, on the fleshy part of her rear, her jeans had been shredded when she wiped out on the wet asphalt. She'd slid on her hip and upper thigh as the bike skittered away from her. She gripped Quil's hand fiercely as Jacob poked gingerly at her leg.

"Oh, fu—" She tried and failed not to swear. "It really hurts, it really, really, ah, _shit_." She bit the word off between her teeth.

"Bells, it's really bad." When Jacob looked up at her, his eyes shimmered with guilt. "I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault, Jake."

There had been a moment, right before she went down, when she had seen Edward. He'd been as ethereally beautiful as she remembered. His chiseled lips parted, and he stretched out a marble arm toward her, as if to caress her cheek, but perhaps he had just been pointing out the loose gravel in the turn where the tire lost traction. She closed her eyes and tried to let the memory of Edward take away the pain.

"I think," Jake said, "I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but I think we're going to have to take off your pants."

"What?" She was jerked back to reality. "No!"

"I'm sorry, honey, but the fabric is all cut to hell, and you've got little rocks and shit ground into your leg. I can't get at it, and we've got to see it to clean it."

"Maybe I can..." She twisted around, but couldn't get a good angle to even see what had happened. "You got a mirror?"

Quil handed her his mom's little make up mirror, and what she saw made Bella gasp.

A dark stain had spread across the back of her hip and down the leg of her jeans. The wound itself could only be seen in glimpses between the ragged shreds of denim, but it was enough to make her shudder. The back of her upper thigh appeared to be a stinging mixture of mud, gravel, cotton fibers, and blood: lurid red, dotted with pink confetti bits that must have been flecks of her skin. Her knees buckled and Jake caught her under the arms.

"Okay," she breathed, sagging against his chest. "Maybe I need a little help. But I'm not taking my pants off. It would hurt too much anyway."

"Fine then," declared Quil. "We'll just be like EMT's and cut you out of your clothes."

Quil ran to the kitchen for scissors. Jake kept one arm around her as he rustled in the bathroom cupboards for iodine, washcloths, Band-aids, and tweezers.

"You're going to bleed on the carpet, Bella," said Quil when he returned. "You better stand in the tub or my mom will think Jake was here and finally got his period."

Jacob sighed. "If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times: Shut up, Quil."

Bella tried to step into the bathtub, but winced sharply as her movement needled the gravel deeper into her flesh. So Jacob lifted her over the lip of tub, and she swayed forward, her back to the boys, and rested her face on one arm against the cool tile. With his scissors, Quil was already sawing up her pant leg from the ankle.

"Be careful," she muttered.

"Trust me," said Quil. "I took Home Ec."

_I'm doomed._

Quil snipped through the waistband of her jeans and then reached around her to cut down the side of her other pant leg. As the fabric fell away, she was thankful that the tail of her long, flannel shirt covered most of her bottom. Nevertheless, a good portion of her printed cotton underpants were visible where the shirt hem curved up at her sides.

"Smurfs?" said Jacob. He swallowed thickly. "I never thought they would be Smurfs..."

_He's thought about my underpants?_ Bella could practically feel Jacob's eyes on her. She tried to tell herself that he was looking at the pants and not her butt, but she wasn't sure there was much difference between the two.

"I'll never see these little blue guys the same way again," groaned Quil. He leaned closer to her derriere, peering intently. "Which one is Horny Smurf? He's my hero."

"Back off," growled Bella. "You're lucky my leg hurts too much to kick you." At least she hadn't skidded on her actual ass, she thought, because then even the undies would have had to go.

Jake smoothed her hair and whispered, "Shhhh..." as Quil tugged shreds of denim from her wound. She gritted her teeth, but couldn't help crying out from time to time. When that was done, Quil handed Jacob a cup, and he poured cool water over her leg with a steady hand. She watched the blood roll down her skin and toward the drain in a sickening pink stream. After much rinsing, the two boys leaned over her with their faces at her hip and pondered their next move.

The subtle rippling of the muscles in Jacob's back fascinated her. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her thigh, and when he touched her leg with his big, gentle fingers, she couldn't help but shiver. For the first time, she was thankful to have Quil as a tag-along; otherwise, she and Jake would have been alone together, both of them half naked.

She didn't want to think about why that would have been a problem. Instead, she asked, "So what do you think?"

"Well," said Quil, "I can still see a lot of dirt and rocks in here. I'm thinking... hospital."

"Yeah," Jacob agreed. "Or we call Sue." He straightened up and put his hands upon his slim waist. Bella noticed that his jeans were sagging low enough to see the edges of his boxers. _Now we've seen each other's underpants!_ she thought wildly, and had to suppress a giggle. _What the heck is WRONG with me?_ She forced herself to think about her options for fixing up her leg.

"No hospital," she decided. Charlie would flip out if she went there twice in one week. "But I don't want Sue to know either. She cleaned me up the first time I wrecked. It'll look suspicious."

Quil and Jake exchanged worried glances.

"Bella, come on," said Jacob. "You are seriously messed up."

At those words, she felt another giggle rising in her and she couldn't stop it. She just laughed, an ugly burst of sound that bounced off the walls in the small bathroom and sounded too loud and too bright. She thought of Edward, the Cullens, her father, her slow starvation, _everything_ that had gone on this fall and her fragile efforts the past few days to overcome it all. Her laughter quickly changed to a sob and Jacob, misinterpreting her outburst, pulled her into his arms.

"It's okay," he said. "You won't get in trouble."

"Well, we've got to call _somebody_," said Quil.

Fifteen minutes later, another ridiculously tall boy appeared in the bathroom doorway. He was quivering like a cornstalk in a strong wind, his Adam's apple gigging up and down, with bright red embarrassment spreading over his skin like a house fire. In his oversized hands he clutched a black duffle bag.

"Oh, my gosh!" he cried at the sight of Bella. He clapped a hand over his eyes and jumped backward, thumping his head on the top of the doorframe. "Sorry, Bella! I'm not looking! Not looking, I promise!"

"Seth," said Jacob. "Settle down. Did you bring your mom's bag?"

"Got it," said Seth, tossing the duffle at them as he continued to shade his eyes with his other hand. Bella thought she had never met anybody more prone to blushing than herself.

"Okay," said Quil, "We need you to read to us from her first aid book. Can you look up road rash?"

Chivalrously keeping his head down, Seth sat cross-legged on the floor and read aloud about how to tweeze grit from the wound. This step involved almost an hour, with much wincing and cringing on Bella's part. The boys removed about a dozen pieces of gravel, some sand, and even a small shard of glass, glinting wickedly in the light.

As they worked, Jake told Quil what he and Bella had seen from the road just before her crash: Sam and his gang, cliff-diving into the icy Pacific Ocean. Embry had been with them.

"They forced him to jump?" wailed Quil. "In January? Those sick bastards!"

Jacob nodded. "And they _looked_ at me again. They're really starting to creep me out."

Almost too quietly for them to hear it, Seth muttered, "Sometimes they look at me, too. I don't like it."

Bella saw Quil's jaw tighten. "We're going to get them," he said.

"They're not messing with Seth, too," agreed Jacob. "No way."

Seth shot a grateful look at the two older boys. Then he bent over the book again and his face blanched.

"What?" said Jacob.

"It says," Seth gulped, "it says now you have to scrub it. It says, 'Scrub vigorously to remove any final traces of debris' and it says, 'This may involve some discomfort.' Oh, Bella, I think I'm going to wait in the hall." He scooted outside and shut the door.

Quil and Jacob turned to her with faces of regretful resolution.

"I think it's clean enough," she said, but Quil soaped up a rough-looking washcloth and nodded at Jake.

"Sorry," Jake said. Then he pressed her to the tub wall and held her in place with his whole body melded against her. Bella was about to chastise herself _again_ for having unwanted thoughts about him when Quil started scrubbing.

Outside the door, Seth was screaming almost as loud as she was. "She's clean! She's clean enough! Please stop!"

"There's still some dirt," Quil muttered. He rinsed the cloth and soaped it up again.

Jacob pressed harder and she thrashed against him. "Almost done," he crooned in her ear. "Almost done..."

Above her own wailing, she could hear Seth crying, "Let her go!"

At last Quil rinsed her leg, and her stomach rolled dangerously at the scent of fresh blood. Recognizing her queasiness, Jacob opened the window for some fresh air.

"I'm sorry, too," said Quil. "But it's done now." He gave her a Kleenex and she blew her nose noisily. "I just want you to know that I hold your ass in the highest regard."

Jacob wiped at her tears with his fingers, his face so sad and sorry, and she had to turn away. _Too much, too much._ Still, he wrapped his arms around her middle.

Seth returned and asked for a tissue, too.

Jake reached out to ruffle his hair. "You're so sweet to worry about Bella, Seth."

"God, that was horrible," he sniffed. "When I get home, I'm telling my mother she can stuff her dreams of med school for me."

Bella dabbed at her eyes. "I know," she sympathized. "I can't even get through science class."

Seth opened the book again and described how to apply the special non-stick bandages his mom carried. They were about as large as the pages of a paperback novel, Bella thought. Jacob smoothed one over her hip as Quil dried her leg with a clean washcloth.

"Ibuprofen?" she begged.

Jake handed her a pill and a glass of water. "Can you step out of the tub now, Bells?"

"No, and what am I going to wear? I can't go home in my underpants."

Here, Seth could no longer withstand the temptation to look. "Smurf-tastic," he chuckled.

Bella just groaned.

The boys carried her to the couch where they lay her face down. Quil brought her a plastic bag filled with ice cubes and set it on her behind. It was hard for her to hold it while lying on her stomach with her arm bent backward, so Seth sat beside her and very gently pressed the ice to her thigh. _Ah,_ thought Bella. _That feels so good. I think this is how Edward's hand would have felt if he'd ever let himself touch my butt._

There was some discussion over what she could wear to get home. Quil rummaged through his room and brought out a pair of his junior high basketball shorts. He offered them to her, but she balked.

"It says 'Ateara' right across the butt, Quil."

"And now it will say 'Ateara' across your butt," he replied with a kingly air, sweeping his hand aloft with a flourish. "This is as it should be."

"Please, no," she sighed.

Jacob volunteered to don the shorts and lend Bella his jeans, though she would have to roll them up. He stepped into the kitchen for privacy and returned wearing the shorts. They were too small for him, showing _a lot_ of his long, firm thighs, and they clung too tightly. As he held out the jeans to Bella, she had to try hard to keep her eyes on his face. They both realized at the same time that the jeans wouldn't work either.

"They'll fall right off your waist, won't they?" Jake said.

"Yep."

She hoped they could figure something out soon. She was starting to get cold, and she felt utterly exhausted as the Ibuprofen kicked in and the pain and tension started to leave her body. She lay on the couch like a boneless lizard while the boys argued about who should have the honor of clothing her goose-pimply ass. Like everything else boys did, this seemed to have become a competition.

"She can have my shorts!" yelled Seth as Quil raced back down the hall to search for something else. "Here!" And young Clearwater whipped off his cargo shorts with such gusto that the zipper broke.

"Crap," he said, looking down at his Sponge Bob boxers. He collapsed to his knees beside the sofa and held his cargos on his lap to hide his impulsive dishabille.

"Okay, seriously, Seth," said Bella. "You _cannot_ make fun of my underpants."

Quil leapt into the living room then like a balletic hippopotamus with a red and white striped skirt around his middle. "This is my mom's!" he said, snapping the waistband. "You can wear it because it's elastic! This will fit anyone."

"You look hilarious!" laughed Jake.

Quil did a little hula while Seth warbled a pretty good "Aloha" song.

Bella couldn't help grinning at him. Quil was kind of an idiot, but he had been there for her today. She was sorry now for rebuffing him so curtly in Jake's garage. He was her friend, too, she realized. From now on, she would rebuff him more sweetly.

"Quil," she said, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "Thanks. For this." She waved vaguely at her backside. "For helping me."

She could tell the moment when his brown eyes shifted from wary of her to warm. "It's cool," he said, and she knew he meant more than just the bandaging.

"You, too, Seth," Bella remembered to include him. "And you, Jake. Thank you."

The moment turned sweeter then, which must have prompted Seth's overly intimate revelation: "You know," he said, "this is the closest I have ever been to a girl's butt." He gazed at Bella reverently as he knelt beside her, holding her ice bag. "I will never forget this day as long as I live."

Quil smacked him in the back of the head. "Seth, come on!" he said. "If you want to get a girlfriend someday, you can't go around blabbing your inexperience. Act like you've seen a hundred butts."

"What?"

"You gotta act like you've seen a hundred butts."

"Like you, Quil?" groaned Bella into the couch. "With your Ph. D. in love?"

"Thousands, Bella," he replied. "I've seen thousands of butts."

"This couch _smells_ like a thousand butts," she huffed.

"Sorry," he said. "That's where Grandpa sits."

Bella started to cry weakly.

Jake frowned at Quil and motioned for Bella to sit up a little. He lifted her shoulders and scooted under her so she could lay her head on his lap. She made sure to keep her face turned toward his knees, away from his bare chest and...other things that she was suddenly thinking about. Jake stroked her hair, and she felt both soothed and thrillingly excited. She tried to slow her breathing. _Be cool, Bella,_ she told herself. _Just act like you've seen a hundred butts._

"Would you mind?" Seth asked her. He had set the ice bag aside. "Could I just..."

Bella craned her neck to see Seth's hand hovering over her backside.

"No!" shouted everyone else.

The doorknob rattled then, and they heard the clicking of heels in the hallway.

"Quil?" called a woman's voice. "Have you started your homework?"

Mrs. Ateara walked into the living room to find a shirtless, nearly pantsless Jacob with his jeans on the floor and some white girl's face in his lap, Sue Clearwater's precious, sweet little boy with his shorts wadded in his crotch and his hand poised above the girl's ass—and where were _her_ pants?—, and her own son perched on the coffee table in her best skirt.

"Well," she said to Quil, "at least _you_ are behaving normally."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thank you, dear readers. Please review. Each one is like a precious snowflake. Or something like that. ;-)

Truly, I want to thank you all for sticking with my story despite the long wait time between chapters. I'm doing my best, but having a tough time with the baby and the sleep deprivation. (I'm getting confused about whether the root word for that is deprived or DEPRAVED!) Do write me a note and tell me which parts of the story you think are funny. That is both helpful to me as a writer and cheering to me as an exhausted mom. Have a great weekend, everyone!


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note: I'm back. Where was I? Well, I've developed PPD, or postpartum depression, which really stinks. I went to a special PPD support group and I've been trying to recover, but I'm told that it may take a year for me to feel better. I just wanted to say that working on my comic story has been a nice break from RL, and that I greatly value the notes from kind readers like Cloudshadow22, Aubrette, Littlegirlblue, and others who reviewed or PM'ed me recently. You all encouraged me to keep writing. _

_The events in this Chapter occur in the evening on Thursday, January 29, 2006. Jake's birthday party will be on Saturday, January 31. (I made that date up, but I think it fits with the cannon.)_

**Chapter Twelve**

**"****Quil's Mom"**

_Utter humiliation._ Bella drove home as fast as her rusty heap of a truck would go, her face burning red with embarrassment and her backside burning with road rash. If only she could go back in time and prevent the horrible, horrible scene that had ensued when Quil's mother had come home from work and caught the lot of them in the living room in various states of un- and cross-dress. She wiped the back of her hand across her nose and blinked rapidly against hot tears.

Quil's mother thought she was a whore. There was no prettier way to say it. And it was all thanks to that sweet little _twerp_, Seth Clearwater, and the pack of lies everyone had told to prevent an adult from discovering the motorcycles under the tarp in her truck bed. Well, the bikes were no longer weighing her down, she thought, as she jounced over a pothole and the backend skittered with freedom.

Mrs. Ateara—Joy, she wanted Bella to call her!—had looked them over for several long, painful minutes before she spoke. The first thing she wanted to know was whether Bella was all right, considering the humongous bandage on the back of her thigh. Bella knew she was a terrible liar, so she had looked to Jake.

"We were hiking," he said smoothly. "Bella slipped and skinned her leg on a hillside. Lots of gravel."

Mrs. Ateara had pursed her lips, but Jacob maintained eye contact with a perfectly bland expression on his face.

"I skinned my elbow, too," he added, showing her a scratch he'd probably sustained helping Bella on the road.

"Okay," said Mrs. Ateara. "So, what's in the truck? Under the tarp."

"Oh, you do NOT want to look under there, Mom!" Quil said, and when she seemed even more curious, he fabricated an atrocious tale about science class and composting, eventually persuading his mother that the tarp concealed, of all things, a load of manure. He said Bella had obtained it for him from a dairy farm south of Forks.

"Before you went hiking," Mrs. Ateara said flatly, directing her words to Bella. "Let me get this straight. You got out of school this afternoon and said to yourself, 'I think I'll fill my truck with cow poop for my friend Quil, in the rainstorm, and then I'll drive it out to La Push and leave it sitting in my truck for a couple hours while I hike on slippery hills with my buddies.'" She raised a dark eyebrow at Bella and waited for her reply, while behind his mother's back Quil gave Bella a thumbs-up sign and a toothy grin.

"Yep," said Bella. "That's what I did." Then she hid her face in Jacob's knees again.

"Uh huh," said Mrs. Ateara.

Bella could hear the ticking of a clock somewhere in the kitchen during the silence that followed.

"That sounds like a load of bullshit to me."

Everyone blanched at Quil's mother's words until she guffawed at her own joke. The boys joined in with nervous chuckles, and it seemed like they were all going to get off the hook until Mrs. Ateara dropped the bomb of her final question: "And where, pray tell, are all of your pants?"

Seth cracked first, leading to the biggest whopper of the afternoon. "We were playing a g-g-g-game," he stammered.

"A game?"

"It's called...Musical Pants!"

"Ah," Mrs. Ateara had said. "I see."

_No,_ Bella had wanted to say, _you do NOT see. This is not what it looks like! _But Quil's mother handled everything with strict efficiency then, hustling the boys off to Quil's room to get dressed and then sending them outside with instructions to unload the manure at the old garden patch on Grandpa Ateara's allotment, which was on the other side of town and would take "at least half a freakin' hour," according to Quil as the boys scurried out. Then she had turned to Bella and said, "I hope you're playing _safe_ Musical Pants, young lady!"

Bella groaned aloud in her truck as she sped homeward, wishing she could erase the memory of that excruciating half hour before the boys had returned. Her thigh burned and throbbed every time she depressed the clutch. It was a toss up as to which was more painful, her leg or her recollection of tea time with Quil's mom.

"Call me Joy," the older woman had said, handing Bella a pair of sweatpants that she said were from her old volleyball team.

Bella tugged them on with hardly a glance.

"Now sit and pay attention."

Directing Bella into a chair at the kitchen table, Mrs. Ateara handed her a cup of orange-and-spice tea that would have been delicious under other circumstances, but which scalded her throat as she gulped it too fast in her embarrassment.

Thence ensued an intensely awkward lecture on sexually communicated diseases and their effects on the genitalia. It was impossible for Bella to protest her innocence because she couldn't get a word in edgewise. Mrs. Ateara fired up her computer and, talking all the while about the painful symptoms of various ailments, downloaded a bunch of photos that were far more educational than even an egghead like Bella had ever wanted to see.

"I had this once," Joy said, pointing to a particularly gnarly example. "So itchy!"

Then she had bemoaned the difficulties of being a teenage girl with a wild reputation and the unfair double standard applied to boys and girls for promiscuous behavior—which reminded her that technically, Bella was breaking the law by fooling around with Quil and Jacob, both promising young men from good families who did not need to get mixed up in a paternity suit, and really, didn't Bella think Seth was a little young for her? Why, he had barely started sliming his sheets with wet dreams. She knew this because Sue Clearwater had asked her for laundry tips, guessing correctly that Quil created a good deal of such laundry.

Bella stared at her, blushing even harder for Quil's sake.

"It's only a problem on dark fabric," Joy said. "Don't look so worried!"

Bella choked on her tea trying to speak, but Mrs. Ateara went inexorably on, zooming in on the most gruesome photos, shaking her head at the possible consequences of Bella's behavior. She said she really ought to call Bella's father, except that she herself knew what it was like to be a girl with a broken heart—"Oh yes, honey, the whole reservation knows how that Cullen kid dropped you like a turd"—trying to dull her pain with sex.

"Of course, this was all before I started seeing Quil's father," Joy said, "but there was a time when a certain bastard by the name of Joshua Uley made me a lot of promises he didn't intend to keep. And I was not the only one he did wrong, believe me. But I took it pretty hard. Got kind of crazy for a while."

Joy recounted an eye-popping number of escapades that made Bella blush and avert her eyes. She studied the orange tiles behind the stove, the way the light reflected off the porcelain sink, anything to keep her mind of the lurid details. She counted the hinges on the dark brown cupboards—the mental equivalent of sticking her fingers in her ears and singing _la la la la la_—and had begun to count the squares on the tired, beige linoleum when she heard something that riveted her attention right back to where she least wanted it.

"...not tell him for his sake, you know? I think hearing about your behavior would just hurt his feelings. And I always liked him, you know, more than the others, because he actually wanted to date me, I think, not just screw around in the back of a car."

"My _father?_"

"Oh, yes. Is he still single? Lord, he really kept my mind off of Josh. He could do this one thing with his—"

Bella yelped and scooted so suddenly away from the table that she spilled her tea all over her flannel shirt and the floor.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Quil's mom said. "Of course you don't want to hear about _that._ But at least it shows you still have some sense of shame. Maybe you'll turn out okay."

She smiled brightly at Bella and mopped up the spill with a dishrag.

Quil returned then, saying that he had dropped off Seth and Jake at their houses. As Bella hastily thanked Mrs. Ateara for the tea and scrambled out the door, Quil whispered that he truly _had _dumped the load in the truck bed at his grandfather's lot.

"The bikes are in his shed," he breathed in her ear. He helped her climb into the cab, letting his hands linger a little too solicitously on her backside. "Nice pants," he smirked.

"Quit touching my butt," she growled, practically slamming the door on his hand. "And _please,_" she added, rolling down the window, "tell your mom that we're not dating."

Quil blinked. It had started to sprinkle again, and little raindrops were gathering on his eyelashes. "Well, no," he said, frowning. "Not yet."

"Tell her I'm not dating any of you!"

He leaned one arm against her door and smiled up at her. "It's tough to decide, isn't it?" "Argh! Quil, she thinks I'm a whore!"

"What?"

"She thought—when she saw us all—she thought we were—you know—messing around!"

"Oh. Hey, I scored. She is so not discreet, and now I'll have a reputation! Whoo!"

Bella flopped forward, leaning her head on the steering wheel, and groaned. "You did not score, dammit. And _I'm _going to have a _bad_ reputation. It's called a double standard, moron. You look like a stud, and I look like a slut."

"So..."

"Can you fix this? Please?" Bella wiped a hand across her eyes. "People already think I'm crazy. I can't be a crazy slut, too."

"Well, okay. Don't cry."

"She lectured me with horrible pictures!"

"Oh." Quil looked thoughtful, an expression Bella had never seen on him before. He pursed his lips together like his mother did, and his heavy, black brows sank low over his dark eyes. "Pictures?" he asked.

"Yes," sniffed Bella. "From the internet. Pictures of—"

"Crotch rot. Yeah, I've gotten that lecture, too. Many, many times. Did she show you the one of the guy with—"

"Please! Just tell her I'm not a ho-bag!"

As she drove away, she thought that repeated subjecture to Mrs. Ateara's "Scared Celibate" lecture, complete with visual aids, would make almost anybody a little weird. Maybe she could cut Quil some psychological slack.

When she got home, she slithered gracelessly to the ground and pushed the truck's door shut with her hands, not her aching hip. Then she winced her way up the steps of the front porch, wondering how she could avoid Charlie's noticing the awkwardness of her gait.

She needn't have worried. Charlie was on the phone when she came in, talking in that curt, commanding tone he reserved for police business, and he barely looked up. There was a mess of manilla file folders spread across the kitchen table, and the fluttery, flimsy pink papers of carbon copy incident reports were scattered here and there.

Rummaging through the refrigerator, Bella came up with an apple and a carton of yogurt, which she chugged straight from the container: no time for a proper dinner today; she needed to pop another ibuprofen and lie down. As she was lurching toward the stairs, however, Charlie hung up the phone and called to her.

"There's been a report of a missing hiker," he said. He ran his hands through his hair and gestured to the chair beside him. Bella perched, very carefully and reluctantly, on the edge of it.

"It's the second hiker this month. She went out alone in the park and hasn't come back. Now I don't want to alarm you, but you said sometimes you and Jake go hiking, and..."

_Hiking? _This must have been a cover story for the motorcycles, but Bella could hardly remember all the lies she told Charlie before their big heart-to-heart talk on Monday. She knew what Alice would have said: _Part of being a Cullen is being meticulously responsible._ Perhaps, thought Bella, she should try harder to remember the lies. Or stop telling them. She felt a twinge of guilt, thinking of her recent promise.

"...and I know I said I'd talk to you more about my work, the things that worry me..."

_Ack! Twist the knife a little deeper, Dad._ Now she really felt guilty. Should she come clean?

"...thinking that maybe there's some foul play here. Two people missing..."

Of course if she told him about the motorcycles, she'd relieve her conscience but get grounded for a year. She'd miss her friendship with Jacob. She'd even miss Seth and Quil.

"...lot of responsibility to the people in this town..."

Nope. She would not tell him. And in true Bella-fashion, once she had made a decision, she felt relieved of the burden of considering possibilities and playing out the endless scenarios and ramifications of each choice. This was an easy one. _Keep mouth shut; keep friends; keep self sane. Check._

"...Sheriff coming down from Port Angeles tomorrow morning..."

_Yep, good choice._ Her father was sharing his thoughts, so to her this felt like she, too, was keeping up her side of the deal. Her thoughts were now free to attend to other matters: _Holy crow, my butt hurts._

"...and one of the deputies is spooked about the woods now. Don't know how I'm going to work with that. Says he saw someone, but there's no tracks. All the same, we've got to ..."

She watched her father's mouth moving, two pink lips flapping beneath the woolly-bear caterpillar bristle of his mustache and she noted that one of his teeth seemed to have a bit of coffee stain on it. _He should get that cleaned at the dentist. Have I been to the dentist lately? Hmm._

"...even listening to me? Bella?"

_Uh oh._

Charlie bore a crease between his brows and his eyes were snapping.

"Yes?" she squeaked.

Leaning forward, her father put a hand under her chin to make her look at him. "Stay out of the woods."

She met his eyes, saw the worry there. "Okay."

As she climbed the stairs to her room, she tried her best to walk without showing pain. When he called, "Bella?" she thought she was busted, but then Charlie asked her the most unexpected question: "Are you dating Quil? Jake's friend?"

"Quil?" She turned around, perplexed. "No, I—"

"Then why are you wearing his pants?"

To Bella's blank stare, he added, "It says 'Ateara' right across your..." He waved a hand at the unmentionable area of his daughter's form as he searched for a father-friendly word. "...rear bumper."

Bella spun around like a puppy, but couldn't quite see what her father was talking about. Then she remembered what Mrs. Ateara had said about her volleyball team. _No wonder Quil had been so smug, helping her into the truck._

"Oh," she sighed. "These's are Quil's mom's pants. Mine got, uh, muddy, and she let me borrow these."

"His mom," Charlie said, looking at her from beneath his eyebrows. "Honestly? Because if you've got a new boyfriend, I'd think that would come under the heading of things-fathers-ought-to-know about their daughters-who-promised-to-share-stuff."

"Yes, honestly," said Bella, and she smiled. It really felt good, she thought, after her morally ambiguous inner dialogue about the motorcycles, to be honest about _this_, at least. "I can't even imagine...Quil is... he's..." _an idiot, a pervert, a big-mouthed, desperate dweeb _"...my friend. Like Jacob. And Seth. I'm friends with Seth now, too."

Charlie mirrored her smile, and she felt like sharing more.

"They helped me change my pants!"

Charlie's smile dropped.

_Ooh, that came out wrong._ "I mean, they helped me back to Quil's house when I slipped on a rocky hillside, and then Quil's mom lent me these pants. And I hurt my leg a little." _There, that was kind of honest. Partly._ Her leg was throbbing and she thought she could no longer avoid limping, so she waited for her honesty to pay off in the form of fatherly sympathy.

Charlie, however, zeroed in on the rocky hillside bit. "So you were hiking? God dammit, Bella, I just told you to stay out of the woods!"

"I know! I'm sorry!"

Charlie passed a hand over his face. "What happened to your leg?"

"Scratched it. Well, scraped it. A lot."

"You need to scrub it?"

"No! Please, no more scrubbing!" She paled. "Quil already—I mean, Quil's _mom _already scrubbed it clean." She started backwards up the stairs. "It's painfully clean, believe me." Just a few more steps. "I'll just go lie down now, if that's okay."

She backed farther up the stairs, gripping the railing to spare her leg. Charlie watched her go, an oddly speculative expression on his face. Just as she was about to slip into her room, he called her back to the top of the stairs.

"Yes?" She looked down into the kitchen, where he sat in the glow of the lamp with his head cocked to one side. His mustache twitched from side to side as he contemplated his words.

"So," he said at last. "Quil's mom. Joy." He stirred one finger in his cup of cooling coffee. "How's she doing?"

Bella stared at him. She felt her face turning pink even as she watched her father's do the same, but he held her gaze. Then she scooted into her room and slammed the door.

_Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Not happening! _

Bella cast around for something to stem her panic, and when she spotted her guitar, she snatched it up and perched on the edge of her desk chair.

_Strum, strum!_

G major, D major.

_Strum, strum!_

Playing felt good, but the sounds didn't fit her mood. Less frantic now, she rustled through Sarah Black's songbook and found the chord charts. She tested the variants labeled Gm and Dm.

_Ah._ THESE fit her mood. Minor chords were _fantastic. _They offered a whole new world of angsty expression! She explored further, working her fingers to form E minor, C major, and A minor. Keeping the book open so she could study the new chord charts, she practiced mixing up the minors with the two major chords she already knew, G and D.

Channeling her dread into the music, she found a chord combination that sounded like a cross between the _Jaws_ movie music and the theme from _Peter Gunn,_ an old cop show that Charlie made her watch sometimes. The sound was ominous, threatening. Almost before she realized it, she discovered some lyrics: "Quil's mom..." she sang. "Quil's mom..."

This song wasn't beautiful. She didn't try her faulty soprano. Instead, she let a deep, throaty alto come out, and she found she could sing louder and stronger this way. It felt kind of ...powerful. And whoa, that was a new sensation for her.

"Quil's Mooooooommmm!"

Hers was the voice of doom.

More words leapt in her brain, then whole lines and couplets. She set down the instrument and started scratching some lines in the same notebook where she had written her "Psycho Heartless High School Bitch" song about Lauren Mallory.

While she was writing, she heard her father talking on the phone downstairs. A horrible suspicion made her open her bedroom door and listen. She could only catch fragments of his voice, but it was enough: "...thanks...Bella...pants... been a while... party on Saturday at Billy's house?"

_Crap. Crap, crap, crapitty crap—aw, shit! _

She had done her best to avoid romantic movies, songs, and people. Now she was going to have to live in the same house as a person who had a date. The thought felt just as disgusting as if she had learned her father operated a home taxidermy business on the kitchen table.

Quil's mom was pretty. Like Quil, she carried a few extra pounds, but those pounds were in all the right places, translating into a plump chest and curvy hips. She had long shiny hair, which was kind of sexy for a middle-aged woman, and bright red finger nails. She had smiled and laughed a lot, even while she lectured Bella with hideous pictures of scabby crotches. Her father would notice those things, would like them. Not the scabby crotch pictures, but the smiles, the pretty fingernails, her nice figure. She caught herself fluttering her hands in the air like a spastic bumble bee. Bella shut the door and returned to her notebook.

After an hour, she felt that she had a pretty good song. It was not about Edward, like her father had hoped. It was not about recovering from her broken heart. This song was a weapon for warding off more pain. She felt a little rabid, like a cavewoman fighting saber-toothed tigers with a spear. A six-stringed spear that vibrated tight against her gut, charged with the strength of her own fully-found voice.

_Strum! Strum! Strum!_

The minor chords vibrated with their dark, new thrill, and she didn't care if her father heard her.

* * *

><p>(Em) Quil's mom... gave me some (C) pants<p>

(Em) Quil's mom...said there is a (C) chance

you'll get an (Em) S.T. (G) I.

if (Em) you even (C) try

to live the (Em) way I lived in (G) high

(D) schooooooool.

* * *

><p>Quil's mom...gave me some tea.<p>

Quil's mom...asked if it hurts when I pee.

She knows about that stuff

cuz she was livin' rough

but she is happier now,

Quil's mommmmm.

* * *

><p>My dad...has been lonely and sad<p>

My dad... got hurt really bad

by his crazy ex

although he liked the sex

it was almost as good

as Quil's mom.

* * *

><p>Bridge: (C) If he asks her out, she'll probably (G) say yes.<p>

(C) If he brings her back here, it's gonna (G) suuuuuck!

(C) If they go in (D) his (G) roooooom,

I don't know (Em) what I will doooooo,

(Em) I might have live in my (D) truuuuuuuck!

* * *

><p>My dad...called her up to say<p>

"Quil's mom...will you be at the par-tay?

I hope you'll be there,

cuz I kind of still care,"

and I DO NOT LIKE

Quil's (G) mom.

* * *

><p>Bella added an angry flourish at the end: <em>Strum, strummy strum! <em>Breathing hard, she set the guitar on her bed and logged in to her email account.

"Hi Mom," she wrote. "Having a bad day here. Charlie called up this woman..." She deleted that and started again. "My friend's mom caught me pantless with my other friend Jacob and..." No. There was really no way she could talk to Renee about this, she realized. Renee would either get hurt feelings or want to know if Bella were truly having sex with three boys, and she would then congratulate her. Logging out, Bella wished, not for the first time, that she could have had a normal mom.

She stood and peeled off Mrs. Ateara's pants. Though she meant to yank them off angrily, she had to settle for slowly and carefully with a lot of grumbling. But she did take satisfaction, after she had redressed in a pair of her own sweats, in wadding them up and flinging them down the stairs.

"Thanks," said Charlie. "I'll wash these for her."

Bella left her bedroom door open and played her song again. Loudly.

"Good job!" called her father. "Way to express your feelings."

"Quil's mom...is a scary beast!" She strummed harder. "Quil's mom...has infections with yeast!"

"That's quite common, you know."

"Quil's mom...cannot be your wife!" _Strum, strum!_ "If Quil is my brother...it will ruin my life!"

"I think you're over-reacting, honey."

Bella put the guitar down. "That woman could have gonorrhyphilis!"

"You know she works at the clinic in Port Angeles? I'm pretty sure she doesn't have gonorr— What the hell are they teaching you in health class?"

Bella limped to her door as fast as she could and slammed it.

Charlie's feet thumped slowly up the stairs.

"You know, I think you're getting better." His voice was muffled through the wood. "This is a pretty typical teenage reaction you're having."

"Whatever!" she screeched.

"It's not even a date, you know." Charlie sounded a little angry now. "I'm just going to wash her pants and give them back to her at the party."

"You're returning her pants in a public gathering! Pants! What will people think?"

"Good point," he snarled. "I'd better make an announcement while I return them. Maybe Billy will have a stage set up."

"Great! That's just great!"

"I'm going to bed. We're going to talk about this tomorrow."

Bella heard the bathroom door open and close. She listened to Charlie brushing his teeth. Then she heard him walk to his own room and close the door.

That night, she lay awake for a long time. She had to lie on her right side to protect her aching thigh, and to add to her misery, anxiety knotted her stomach. When she had avoided romance for so long, what would she do if it came to get her father? She _needed _him.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note. Thanks for reading! Please leave me a notereview; I cherish them. Tell, me should I let Charlie and Mrs. A. get together at the party? Can you sympathize with Bella's reaction to Mrs. A.? Did you try sounding out the chords to the "Quil's Mom" song on your pianos and singing along? Lord knows my husband had to listen to me sing this for a week. ("Quil's Mom"...is a catchy song! Go 'head...you can all sing along!)_

_Do please review if you liked it. Every now and then I meet an awesome reader who leaves comments as she reads each chapter, and it just makes my day. It's soooooo rewarding for writers when you do that. Makes all the work worth it to know that it makes somebody smile. I hope to hear from you!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes"

—or—

"A Partial-but-Alarming Eclipse of the Heart"

On Friday morning, Bella could not change her own bandage. She could replace the big bandaid over the stitches on her forehead with a fresh one, but she could not replace the large patch of gauze on the back of her upper thigh. She tried all kinds of ways to reach it, but even with the aid of mirrors, it was impossible. She had barely managed to peel away a corner of it, and then her stomach lurched at the fresh red beneath. The wound was as raw as hamburger in a butcher shop window. _Urgle. _

Standing in the chilly bathroom, with the gray light of the early winter morning seeping through the curtains, she weighed her options: A) involve her father, B) involve Angela, or C) cry on the floor and wish that Alice was here to help. She bit her lip to still its trembling. She forgot sometimes, in mourning the loss of Edward, that she had also lost her best friend. _ Alice... _The ache in her middle throbbed again.

Alice had cared for her so sweetly while she recovered from James' attack last spring. But now Alice was gone, and she wasn't about to show her father her damaged derriere. She popped an old Vicodin tablet, leftover from her broken leg days. Then she grabbed a fresh bandage and a tube of antiseptic ointment to take to school and hobbled back across the hall to get dressed.

Putting on her jeans was impossible, leaving her with few options. She surveyed her closet balefully. The best choice was the one skirt she owned: a calf-length, tent-like denim thing her mom had bought in the eighties and handed down to her. It was not stylish at all, and she hadn't shaved her legs in days, but it was easy to button around her waist. A pair of orange knee socks hid her Grizzly Adams calves, and a lavender and gray flannel button-down shirt completed her look.

When she exited the house, she waved to Charlie, who was cleaning up the yard. Wearing his black uniform jacket and heavy gloves against the cold, he gathered fallen branches to toss on the brush pile behind the house. In his arms, he held a bundle of twigs and a small, broken board that had once been painted white, but which had faded over many years to a dusty gray color. Bella realized it was the half of her windowsill that had cracked from the house when those two creeps from La Push, Jared and Paul, had tried to look in her window. Knowing that those guys were constantly staring at Jacob and Seth caused her to shudder anew at her close encounter with them.

Charlie paused in his work. He held the broken windowsill aloft and said, "Bella, what do you think this—?" and then he just stopped and stared at her. His breath made white puffs in the air.

"What?" she said.

His eyebrows pinched together in the middle of his forehead as he tried to formulate a tactful question. "Are you...uh...are you going to wear that to school?"

Bella did not dignify that with an answer, and Charlie, shaking his head, bent to pick up some more twigs.

_It's not like I'm dressing to impress anyone, _she sighed, climbing into the cab of her truck. _Clothes don't matter._ But there, in the footwell of the passenger seat, was a reminder that for some people, clothes _did _matter: two of Jacob's T-shirts, bloodied from her bike crashes. She stared at them, two sad piles of cotton, before starting the engine. Jacob's family was barely affording groceries; he certainly didn't have the luxury of tossing out older clothes. Resolving to work her best laundry-room magic on them, she hoped she could get the stains out.

Perhaps it was the Vicodin hitting her system, but as she drove through the wet streets of Forks, her peripheral vision was drawn to an apparition of a face floating in the air beside her window. _Edward? _ She turned her head quickly. No, it was not Edward. She struggled to concentrate on the road and risked another sideways glance. _Jacob? Holy crow! _ It was Jacob's face, his dark eyes somber and brooding. She blinked rapidly and kept driving. The face hovered there, following her.

_What could this mean? _ She shifted her gaze again, and now it was Mr. D'Arcy's face outside her window. Or, not exactly Mr. D'Arcy, but rather the disembodied head of Colin Firth, just as it appeared to Eliza Bennett when she rode away in her carriage from her trying visit with the Collinses. Thinking that she may have watched the BBC's version of _Pride and Prejudice _one too many times, Bella quickly averted her eyes, but it was too late; the face shimmered in the air, wavering between Jacob and Mr. D'Arcy, as the vision intoned darkly, "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

_What? No!_ She could not mix up Jacob and Mr. D'Arcy in her mind. Why, Jacob was just a kid, and Mr. D'Arcy was... She remembered the scene in which he dove into a pond fully clothed. His white shirt flowed around him as he swam beneath the water, through the stems of the lilies. But then she saw Jacob emerge from the pond, the shirt's fabric clinging to his chest as he raked a hand through his dripping black hair. And he was still carrying that riding crop. _Mmmm..._

_Ack! _ The right-side tires rumbled through the gravel at the edge of the road, and she had to swerve to avoid taking out a mailbox. Back on the street, Bella continued toward the school. Mr. D'Arcy, she compelled herself to remember, had greatly disturbed Eliza by expressing certain unwanted sentiments in the Collinses' drawing room. Therefore, he and Jacob were _not _alike. Jacob was not about to express any sentiments to her, unwanted or otherwise (_there is no otherwise, Bella!),_ because surely he could tell that her heart was too wounded to listen to any declarations like that, and he could tell this because he knew her better than any of her other friends.

Moreover, his manner of expressing sentiments seemed to work less by words and more by sacrificing T-shirts; she had TWO of them now crumpled and stained on the floor of her truck. Jacob's face floated before her again, not with the stiff regard of Mr. D'Arcy, but with the wild panic that had paled his skin and made his eyes tremble as rushed to her side in the road yesterday and clutched her to his chest. No...he was not ardently admiring and loving her...no, no, no.

_Please, no. I can't,_ said a tiny part of her heart.

As she pulled into the high school parking lot, she forced all thoughts of Jacob from her mind.

* * *

><p>In the girls' bathroom before school started, Angela helped Bella change the bandage. Bella made her swear not to tell anyone about the motorcycles, and Angela showed her that by setting her left foot on the edge of the sink, she could bend sideways and change the bandage by herself next time. As they headed out into the hall, Angela noticed more damage from the bike's wipeout.<p>

"Hey, your coat," she said, pointing at the back of Bella's tan canvas jacket. "It's practically shredded at the bottom."

Bella took off her coat to look. "Oh no," she said. This was the coat she had worn when... when... on her last day with _him_. She stood still, holding the ragged remains of that day in her hands. To Angela's concerned query, she could only croak, "Edward."

Angela hugged her. "I'm sorry," she said. "I miss Ben a lot, too."

Bella remembered someone saying that Ben had moved away last month. Angela leaned her head on Bella's shoulder, and they stood there in the hallway like an island as the crowd streamed around them.

"Sometimes," Angela continued, "I get really sad and I cry for no reason, and I think about him all the time..." She kept patting Bella's back, even as she described her own heartache.

Standing there, with her friend leaning on her, Bella remembered what Billy had said a few days ago: _You think you're the only one with a broken heart? You selfish girl._ And then she lifted her arms and hugged Angela back. They stood there until the bell rang.

* * *

><p>The morning classes were uneventful. Bella mastered the art of perching painfully on the edges of chairs, keeping her weight off of her wounded bottom. She thought about how it felt to hug someone back. <em> Kind of...good. <em> And why was this a big deal? Was it noticeable because she had been standing there like a stick while others hugged her these past several months? Had she been doing that with her father? With Jacob? She couldn't remember.

Her mind wandered all morning. Sometimes she wondered what she might get Jacob for a birthday gift. Sometimes she wondered if her father would figure out that her windowsill was in the brush pile at the back of the yard and ask her about it. She hoped not. When she finally became aware of her surroundings, she realized she was in English class, giving a group presentation about elements of the Gothic in _Jane Eyre. _

It was truly abrupt, the way she came to her senses. One moment, she was worried about the windowsill, and the next, she found herself standing at the front of the classroom with three other students. She didn't even know their names, though she had a vague recollection of sitting with them on Tuesday, watching their discussion. Now they were telling the class about the novel's setting, and she began to sweat, unsure of her role in the presentation. What should she do? She looked down, and realized that the other students had assigned her to hold the poster they had made.

_Hold the poster. Had it really come to this? _

_I love literature,_ she thought. _Why have I let this class slip past me? _

She lifted the poster higher so that it hid her blushing face.

Bella's day went downhill from there. Lauren Mallory had somehow become Bella's self-appointed fashion consultant, and the cafeteria was a stage for her stand-up comedy routine. She positioned herself at the head of the table and cracked one-liners about Bella's attire: Wasn't Country Couture a little daring for Bella? Had the drag bar in Port Angeles been having a dress-like-a-man-dressing-like-an-Amish-grandma contest? Did she have a new job after school at a dairy farm on a hippie commune, and was this her uniform for the role of sex-slave—to the cattle?

Bella tried to drape the unfashionably huge denim skirt over her neon-bright knee socks. They were, she realized now, actually a pair of Charlie's hunter-orange deer season socks.

"Quit it, Lauren," said Connor, one of the juniors that Bella didn't know well. Her hopes for a defender rose until he spoke again. "Can't you see that Bella's just a lumberjack and she's okay? She puts on women's clothing and hangs around in bars."

"Hangs around in bars?" quipped Eric, with a fakey English accent.

"Oh, stop!" cried Jessica. "I'm going to pee my pants." She was teetering on the edge of her chair as she laughed.

Mike frowned and looked from Lauren to Jessica to Bella, but he remained silent.

"Let's go," whispered Angela, and she and Bella got up from the table.

"Oh, my God, she's limping," snickered Lauren as Bella crept painfully away. "Looks like those cows really know how to give it to her. _Muh, muh, muh!_" She made an obscene noise somewhere between a moo and a grunt.

Angela hustled her away, but Bella could still hear the laughter and the clattering sound of a chair falling over.

"God damn," gasped Jessica from under the table. "I gotta go change into my gym shorts."

Bella moped in Physics class and dropped a bowling ball on her foot during gym class. And the cherry on top of the crummy sundae of her afternoon was Mrs. Kranz, who said that _NO, _Bella could _not_ have a new partner for her history project. She felt like Mrs. Kranz had just pounded a big red stamp across her forehead: _Request DENIED. _ Bella stood there next to the teacher's desk, utterly flummoxed. What was she to do if Vera wouldn't talk?

"Give it more time," said Mrs. Kranz.

She slunk back to her desk as Lauren made mooing noises under her breath.

* * *

><p>When she got home, Bella wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, but she had promised Angela that she'd go with her to Olympic Acres for pizza night with the old folks. Bella knew Albertine was excited about this, but she couldn't tell about Vera. No one could, she supposed.<p>

In the upstairs bathroom, Bella took off her skirt and pulled a fresh bandage from the box she'd picked up at the pharmacy. She set her left foot up on the sink and leaned over to examine the wound. _Mleh. _It was still bright red and sticky-looking. She shuddered and covered it up with fresh gauze. Suddenly she wanted Jacob like she had wanted the Vicodin in the morning. She would call him, she decided. But when she opened the bathroom door, she heard her father's voice. And dog-gone it, he was using the phone.

She pulled her old sweat pants on and leaned against the wall in the upper hallway, waiting for Charlie to finish and watching the clock. She only had a few minutes before Angela would arrive to pick her up.

_Jacob, Jacob, Jacob. _ She wished she could be with him now. He would ask how her leg was feeling, and he would hug her, and she could lean on him, just for a moment. She would breathe in the warm scent of his body, snuggling her head against his chest, and he would brush her hair with his lips—she was pretty sure he had been doing that lately—while she would pretend not to notice, but secretly, she would enjoy it, and—_crap, she would enjoy it? _

Disciplining her thoughts, she strained to hear Charlie's conversation.

"...the right thing to do. Of course it is."

It sounded like advice to a friend, she thought, not police business. She wondered vaguely if that missing hiker had been found.

"...and I know you always suspected. How long have you known for sure?"

Now it sounded like one of her mom's soap operas. It was a little embarrassing having such a gossip for a father.

"A week? I can't believe she never told you. Or him."

Bella sighed. He was probably talking to Billy, and those guys took forever on the phone.

"Yes, tell him tonight!" Charlie said. "Especially since Jake is out with the Atearas."

_Well, darn_. It sounded like Jacob wasn't home anyway. He must be with Quil, and she didn't have Quil's number. She knew her dad had Mrs. Ateara's number, but there was no way she'd ask him for it. Instead, she slouched into her room and picked up her guitar.

She had to lean against the wall to play it because her hip hurt so bad, but she still found comfort in the steady vibration against her middle. She played through all the chords she knew, major and minor, in a thoughtful procession that felt like waves on the sea, up and down. She was rocking in a boat of her thoughts. And that boat was tossed on rough waters.

_Why did I think of Jacob just now, when I wanted comfort? Why not Edward? _

Bella rationalized that it was only because of the nature of her need. Edward couldn't help her with a bloody wound. And certainly not a bloody wound on her backside. That would have been impossible for him, on so many levels. Jacob, on the other hand, wasn't overwhelmed by blood, and he had no problem getting close to her ass. _Oh, no, I did NOT just think that._

She bit her lip. _Maybe Edward had been right to leave me. After all, I'm a fragile human who BLEEDS, and I've—_she gulped—_I've been having disloyal thoughts... _

She felt so confused. It still hurt to think of Edward. She'd been sure their love was real, and that forever for him really meant forever. But he said he didn't want her. He left. And despite her visions, Edward wasn't _here._ Jake was here. Jake was real and solid. Jake was the one who pulled her out of the dirt yesterday when the bike spilled and she was a bloody mess. Edward would have had to steel himself against devouring her...or at least, he would have had to try hard not to lick the pavement.

She wished Jake were with her now. Her feelings for him, she was beginning to realize, were equally as confused as her feelings for Edward. She thought of Jacob's gentle hands. His patience. She knew just the way he would smile at her if he were sitting in her desk chair, listening to her play the guitar. The soft, yellow light from her lamp would shine on his high cheekbones, the long sweep of his black hair. She had to admit that she really liked his hair; it was like a crow's wing, like velvet. And she smiled to think that, even sitting, Jacob was tall enough to be almost level with her shoulders, and if she bent her face toward him just a little bit he would—

Yep. She was mighty confused. Something was happening that her heart was not ready for. She tried to remind herself of the reasons she could not fall for Jake.

_I should make a list, _she thought, _and hang it on the wall by my bed so I'll think of it often. _ She set down the guitar and flipped to a clean page in her journal.

_Number One: He's just a kid. He knows nothing of the supernatural world of vampires, and rightfully so. It would be wrong of me to drag him any farther into my messed up life._

_Number Two: He's sixteen. I'm eighteen. I think there's some kind of social law against dating younger boys. That's just not what people do. In fact, until tomorrow, he's fifteen. That's just...that's just... Ew._

_Number Three: He's like my brother. Or my cousin. A distant cousin. A step-cousin? Oh, who am I fooling? We're most definitely not related. Kind of like what Mr. Knightly said when Emma pointed out that despite their long-standing families' friendship, they were most definitely NOT brother and sister... and then they danced and fell in love. Um, scratch that..._

_Number Four: I love Edward. Wait, why is that way down at Number FOUR? _

_Oh, I am seriously f— _[here she scribbled out a word]_ —in trouble._

Something was changing. And she didn't want it to. _Edward, I'm sorry! _She dabbed at the tears that had sprung to her eyes as the page blurred beneath her. She wished she could wipe out those sentences that had shown her unfaithful heart to her. _I'm sorry, Edward, I still love you! _

She tried to tell herself that it was just the injury talking; if she weren't _physically _hurting so bad, she wouldn't long for Jacob. But she had to admit that Jacob was more than just a means to an adrenaline fix. Emotionally, she was already turning to him for balm.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note(s): <strong>

Thanks for reading. I hope you will leave a comment in a review note.

RL update in case you were wondering: My postpartum depression has turned into manic depression. Seriously, like bipolar disorder. Did you know that could happen? Neither did I. But apparently PPD can totally turn into manic depression if it lasts a long time. This blows. Pubic service announcement: If you have postpartum depression, don't just "wait for it to go away." (Oopsies.) Talk with your doctor so it won't get worse! Hugs to you moms out there.

Check out my friend's stories! Her pen name is Aubrette, and her stories are intelligent, sensitively written revisions of the whole Twilight series! She's got three novels up on FF now. Her Bella is re-imagined as an overweight girl with a stronger personality than SM's character, and this Bella negotiates a more mature relationship with Edward. Jacob is there in Aubrette's stories, too, in all his tortured-yet-attractive glory.

Please review. Did I mention that? Thank you! :-)


	14. Chapter 14 Revelations

_**Author's Note: **__In this chapter, I mention Depression Glass. It's a real thing, made in a factory in southern Ohio during the Great Depression, and it became popular across the country. If you want to see it, do an internet search for "Royal Ruby Depression Glass." That's the official name. _

_And here's an oopsie for you: I made my character Vera have a collection of little glass animals. Sorry, Tennessee Williams! Total Freudian slippage on my part. I make no profit from this work of fan fiction! _

_And speaking of German intellectuals, I was going to call this chapter "Thus Spake Vera-thustra," but I think the title I did choose is better. Nevertheless, can I get a shout out if you recognize the pun? I love puns._

_And thanks to my several guest reviewers. I'd love to write to you each personally with my appreciation, but FF doesn't have that function. So here's a collective thanks. You guys are great._

**Chapter 14**

**"Revelations"**

The cheery "beep! beep!" of the horn on Angela's old white Corolla roused Bella from her worries about her changing feelings for Jacob and Edward. She hurried downstairs as fast as she could, given her sore leg, and hobbled outside. Then she gathered Jacob's stained T-shirts from her truck and asked Angela to come in for a moment so she could toss them into the washing machine.

Angela waited in the living room while she worked on Jacob's shirts. She scrubbed each one with Fells-Naptha soap and poured some color-safe bleach into the washer along with some of Charlie's regular powdered detergent. Hopefully, she thought, that would be enough to remove the stains.

"Okay," she said, returning to the living room and shrugging on her tattered tan coat. "Let's go."

Angela rose from the Swans' green sofa, where she had been curled up for a few minutes with her ever-present knitting. The yellow mass she had showed to Albertine earlier in the week was looking more like a scarf now and less, Bella thought, like a tumor.

Charlie had been on the phone with Billy for the past half hour, but he hung up when he saw that the girls were leaving. "Wait a minute," he said. "I need to talk to you."

Though he couldn't share too many details because of the ongoing police investigation, he told them that the missing hiker in Olympic National Park had been found. Dead.

"Oh, no," said Angela. She sat back down on the sofa and looked up at Charlie with wide eyes. Bella did the same.

"We're not sure yet if she was murdered, or if some wild animal killed her." Charlie sat down heavily in his easy chair and rubbed a hand across his forehead. "It's...it's one of the worst cases I've ever seen. Like those animal attacks last spring." Charlie looked away, his face grim, and Bella knew he was remembering his friend Waylon, a victim of those attacks. An uneasy memory stirred in Bella.

Charlie went on to say that there were some large paw prints near the body, possibly from a bear. A bear could kill someone; that was for sure. But perhaps, thought the park rangers, the animal had just scavenged the body. It was pretty mangled looking.

Angela turned a sickly shade of yellow.

"The cause of death is still unknown," Charlie said. "But in any event, I want you girls to be careful. No hiking in the woods. And until we solve this crime, don't go anywhere alone." His eyes were stern and dark as he looked each of them in the face.

Angela swallowed nervously. Bella could hear her gulp.

"Don't trust any strangers you might see around town. We don't know what the perpetrator looks like yet. And there's still a second hiker missing, even after four days."

Promising to be careful, the girls left for the nursing home. Angela steered her white Corolla slowly through the neighborhood, exclaiming with surprise and worry that such a shocking crime could happen in their little town. Bella said, "Mm-hmm," at the right times, but her mind was wandering. One phrase in particular from Charlie's warning had caught her attention: _like those animal attacks last spring. _

Those were no animal attacks. Her knowledge of Edward's world had disabused her of that notion. She worried now that like her father's friend Waylon, the hikers in the park had crossed the border between blithe ignorance of the supernatural world and a terrifying knowledge of it—and they had had a very short amount of time to live with that knowledge. Could the menace in the woods be a nomad vampire?

Once again she thought that Edward had been wrong to say that her life, after he left, would be as if he never existed. _Bullsh— Uh, Bull-oney, _ she thought. Her life had been changed forever. She_ knew _what might be out there in the trees, in the mossy shadows that went on endlessly under the pines. Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she surveyed the neighborhood fretfully until Angela turned into the parking lot for Olympic Acres.

The song on the radio seemed written for people who would never know about vampires, which was, Bella reflected, just about everyone except _her_: "Come on, party people!" exhorted the singer. "Put your hands in the air! Wave 'em like you don't care!"

She punched the radio's "off" button.

* * *

><p>Vera and Albertine were not exactly party people, waving their hands in the air, but Bella had to admit that the nursing home seemed more festive once the pizzas were delivered.<p>

Aurelia Tisdale, the grumpy black-haired nurse, was trying to keep the seniors from pushing and shoving one another, but she was beset from all sides as she held the hot pizza aloft. Angela scooted through the crowd and took half the boxes from the nurse. She floated easily through the complaining clump of seniors, making sure that each person had a slice with his or her favorite toppings.

"You're really good at that," remarked Bella as the satisfied crowd drifted toward the dining tables in the big community room. "You should try a career in nursing. Or maybe in pizza delivery."

"Thanks," said Angela. "I really like volunteering here. Maybe I will. Become a nurse, that is; not a pizza driver!"

Vera didn't leave her room very often, so Angela snagged a box of pepperoni pizza and headed down the hall with Bella. They would eat with Albertine and Vera at their little dinette set near the window.

Albertine greeted them warmly. She proudly displayed the table she had set with ruby red glassware, explaining that it was something she had saved ever since the Depression. Vera's crystal animals served as a tiny, twinkling centerpiece.

Bella sat down beside Vera and picked up one of the plates, holding it before her eyes. The evening sun, slanting through the nursing home's garden outside the window, set the red glass ablaze. It was like looking at the trees, at the little old ladies next to her, through a filter of blood. _Was this how Edward saw the world? _She was both intrigued and revolted.

Angela served everyone a slice of pizza as Albertine poured ice water from a ruby glass pitcher into ruby glass goblets. "In the Depression," explained Albertine, "this glassware was affordable but elegant. My mother was very proud of this set. We used it for special occasions. And it's too nice to leave in a box now, so I'm glad we can have a special occasion with you girls. Isn't that right, Vera?"

Vera was looking back at Bella through the red lens of the plate. She didn't speak.

"Dig in," said Albertine.

As they ate, the old woman talked about how her family had coped during the Depression. Folks had to reuse a lot of things, she said, and no clothing was ever thrown out until it had been handed down, hemmed, and turned inside out and re-sewn until it was so tattered as to be transparent. Even flour sacks were reused, sewn into play clothes for her little sisters.

"Not like today," Albertine frowned. "We were the original recyclers!"

Angela pulled out her notebook and eagerly recorded Albertine's stories. Silent as usual, Vera peeled the pepperonis off of her pizza and stacked them like oily coins on the edge of her plate. Bella munched her slice and sighed heavily. _ If only those pepperonis could talk, _she thought._ They're probably way more interesting than my partner..._

Albertine interrupted Bella's glum reverie. "You take notes, too," she said. "Vera and I were best friends in high school, so I can tell you all about her family, too."

Bella brightened immediately. Perhaps she wouldn't fail this assignment after all. "Gosh, thank you," she said to Albertine.

"Oh, I'm glad to talk for both of us," the old woman replied. "Vera can be a little shy, you know."

_And the award for Understatement of the Year goes to Albertine Kowalski. _

The girls could hardly keep up with Albertine's chatter. Mrs. Kranz was right; this woman _was _ a goldmine. She described how her mother took in laundry for extra money, turning their kitchen into a little factory where she and her sisters helped with ironing. For Christmas, each child received an orange. That was all.

"And we were glad to get it, too!" she declared. "Fresh fruit was special."

"What was Forks like in the Depression?" asked Angela.

"Small," said Albertine. "Most towns here were connected to the lumber business, or to fishing, like Hoquiam and Grays Harbor just south of here. My father ran a sawmill, so we were more fortunate than most. But oh, there was such an uproar over the park!"

She described the conflict over the state of Washington's plans for creating the Olympic National Park and the lumber towns' desires to stay in business. Moreover, the proposed boundaries of the park meant that some farmers would be forced from their homesteads. But then the Depression hit, the farms went bankrupt, and the farmers left anyway.

Even during the leanest years, the forest provided steady work for men in the community, said Albertine, and the fishing boats kept people working, too. But not all families were fortunate enough to survive by those industries. Vera's father, for example, had owned a dry goods store.

To Bella's curious glance, Albertine explained that it sold groceries, clothing, tools, and farm supplies. "Pretty much everything."

Unfortunately, as the Depression worsened, Mr. Moss let customers make purchases on credit. "He was too kind for his own good. It was 1936, I think, whenVera's father lost the store. Lost everything. Her older brother had to drop out of school, just months before graduation, and go to work in the lumber camps. Yes, it was 1936. Vera and I were sixteen then."

Angela said how sad that must have been for Vera's family. She placed her hand over Vera's, but Vera just stared out the window. She seemed to be watching the sky. The wind was picking up, swaying the pine tops, and dark, heavy clouds amassed over the trees.

"Of course," continued Albertine, "we all thought the Mosses were going to be okay because Vera had her sweetheart. His family was very wealthy. Sixteen was kind of young to be engaged, but she was in love, and the marriage would have helped her family."

Vera put down her napkin with a shaky hand.

"Would have?" asked Bella.

"Well, yes. We had re-made her mother's wedding dress for her with the lace from her baby brother's christening gown, and then on the morning of the wedding, her fiancee—"

Vera made a strangled cry.

The girls turned to look at her. The old woman's cloudy blue eyes had lost focus. She was seeing far away. Her throat worked again, her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Sitting beside her, Bella felt her own heart pound. _Was Vera dying? What should she do?_

Albertine hurried to embrace her roommate. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Remember, you still have me. You'll always have me." She rocked her back and forth, making shushing noses.

Bella could only stare at the two old ladies. Maybe she should leave? She felt all squicky and awkward.

Angela, however, seemed to know the right thing to say. "I can tell you've been good friends for a long time," she murmured.

"Yes," said Albertine more brightly. "Yes, we have." Then she said, "Oh!" and pointed out the window. "Show time!"

The girls turned in time to see an old man roll past the window on one of the garden paths. He was bundled up in a heavy, brown tweed coat with a slouched cap on his head, and he also wore thick gloves and galoshes. Two blankets were folded across his lap. Nevertheless, Angela said, "It's too cold for Mr. Horowitz to be out there. What's he doing?"

"This is the show!" replied Albertine. "It's been going on for the past three nights." She pulled her chair closer to the window and beckoned for the girls to join her. Even Vera seemed to perk up, though her skin was still the color of the tired, white curtains hanging limply beside the glass.

The old man pushed his wheel chair along the path until he rounded the corner at the end of the building, out of sight. Then the scene outside the window was still again. Bella wasn't sure what she was supposed to be looking for. She studied the wintry garden: a few scraggly bushes, some sad, tattered garden ornaments. A concrete bird bath full of icy water. And a gravel path that led between the muddy, dormant flower beds.

She was thinking that the nursing home residents' lives must be painfully boring if a guy wheeling himself through the garden constituted a "show" when another figure appeared outside. It was a teenage girl, struggling against the wind, her fashionable but thin black jacket held closed across her chest with one hand, while the other hand struggled to hold a useless little beret atop her head. A flash of platinum blond hair blew behind her, snarling in the salt wind.

Lauren Mallory.

_Now_ it was a show. Bella pulled her chair closer.

Lauren staggered through the garden in the direction Mr. Horowitz had gone. She rounded the corner of the building, and the garden was quiet again. But only for a moment. Mr. Horowitz appeared a second time, wheeling his chair along the path as he had done before.

"Is he circling the building?" Bella asked.

"Sometimes he does that," replied Albertine, with a creaky snicker. "And sometimes he gets creative."

They watched as the old man left the path and concealed himself behind an evergreen bush. A moment later, Lauren struggled down the path again. The girls could hear her frustrated calls_—_"Hello? Hello?"_—_and some less polite muttering. She passed the bush and went around the building again.

There was a good deal of mud clinging to the wheels of his chair when Mr. Horowitz emerged from his hiding place, but his arms were strong. He wheeled himself to the door of the nursing home and waited there, just long enough for Lauren to round the corner again and spot him. Then he slapped the handicap-accessible, automatic door button and rolled inside.

"Now it's getting good," said Albertine. She indicated that the girls should follow her to the hallway. Even Vera rose from her chair and toddled after them.

"Wait! Please, wait." Lauren's calls carried down the corridor. But Mr. Horowitz sped onward without her, leaving two muddy tracks along the linoleum. He passed Albertine's room and paused in the doorway of another one that must have been his own.

Bella saw that several other residents lingered in the hall, watching the scene. Aurelia Tisdale came out of the dining room and threw up her hands in consternation. "Reggie!" she barked. "Don't you be dragging mud in here when I've just cleaned!"

Pushing past the nurse, Lauren raced after him. "I've got to interview you, dammit!" She left more muddy prints as she stomped down the hall. Her hair, Bella saw, was snarled with tiny leaves, and her expensive sheepskin boots were stained from splashing through the garden.

Mr. Horowitz lingered in his doorway until the last possible moment. Then he scooted inside and shut the door with a slam.

Lauren smacked her hand against the door. "Come _on_! I will buy you pastrami from the deli in Port Angeles!"

The door cracked open. "You think, because I'm a Jew, that I want pastrami?"

"Well, I—"

"I'm a vegetarian! And you're a racist!" _Slam!_ went the door again.

Aurelia growled at Lauren as she stalked to the broom closet. "Don't rile him up, girl."

Bella could hear Mr. Horowitz shouting something, but she couldn't make out his words through the door. Neither could Lauren. "What?" she whined.

"I _said"—_here Mr. Horowitz opened his door again— "Fuck off!" _Slam! _

Lauren spun around, red-faced, and all the other residents standing in the hall pretended to be interested in the ceiling, or their fingernails. "Quit looking at me!" she snapped. Glaring at everyone she passed, she strode back down the hallway to Albertine's room.

"You!" She pointed a manicured finger at Bella and Angela. "You two set me up with that stupid coot. Don't think I'll forget it."

Bella shrank beneath Lauren's icy stare.

"I've only been playing with you before. It's kind of fun to make you cry. But now, you're officially on my shit list."

_Lauren could get meaner? _The thought made Bella tremble. Then a tiny, raspy voice spoke behind her. They all turned to look.

It was Vera, all four feet, ten inches of her. She tottered forward on her pink slippered feet until she faced the angry girl in the hall.

"Fuck off," she croaked.

"Vera!" scolded Albertine.

Bella and Angela burst out laughing. Then Aurelia re-appeared with a mop and hustled Lauren away.

Vera shuffled back to her bed and crawled beneath her blankets. As Angela bid goodbye to her partner, Bella approached the other old woman. Vera was tugging her many mauve afghans up toward her chin. Her thin arms could hardly lift the heavy covers. Bella lifted them for her and whispered, "Thank you."

Vera made no reply. She closed her eyes as if the exertion of Olympic Acres' "dinner and a show" had been too much for her. Bella supposed she could not expect the miracle of speech from her twice in one day, so she turned to go. Then a bony, chilly hand clutched her arm. She turned.

"I know..." Vera hissed, her voice dry as fallen leaves. Bella leaned closer to hear her. She watched the wrinkled skin on her neck, so sickeningly like a turkey's wattle, sag against the straining tendons as the old woman struggled to lift her head. The claw-like hand tugged Bella closer.

"I know..." she rasped. "I know about the Great Depression."

Her milky blue eyes held Bella's in thrall, and Bella was frightened to realize that she wasn't talking about the history project.

* * *

><p>In the car, Angela chattered away like a happy bird. "Oh, we're so going to rock these interviews. Albertine is amazing. I'm going back tomorrow..."<p>

Bella wasn't listening. She was feeling decidedly unsettled. What had Vera meant? From what Albertine said, it sounded like her fiancee had jilted her at the alter. _Like Granny Weatherall..._ Bella thought, remembering a short story from English class. She wondered what Vera had done to move on with her life. Maybe she could learn something from the old lady after all. _Maybe, _she thought, _maybe Vera is like me._

Angela was saying something about the mall in Port Angeles now, but Bella wasn't listening because a sudden realization had just smacked her consciousness with the force of a bowling ball to the gut: Billy had said, _You think you're the only one with a broken heart?_, and now she realized, _Whoa, I am actually NOT the only one. Maybe EVERYBODY is a little bit heart-broken, in one way or another. _

The Corolla rolled through the streets as a litany of pain rolled through her mind: her father's devastation when Renee left, Jake's loss of his mother, Angela missing Ben, and Vera losing her fiancee. On the morning of her wedding!

Her mind reeled on and on in shocked awareness. Not only had Jake lost his mom, Billy had lost his wife. Then there was Quil. Charlie had once told her that Quil's father drowned when a fishing boat sank. For all his bravado and obnoxious flirting, there was no way that Quil didn't hurt sometimes. And Jake had said that his other good friend, Embry, never even knew his father. That had to be awful, just awful. And she thought of Leah, that beautiful, scary girl, whose long-time boyfriend had dropped her for her cousin. Her freaking cousin!

They were back at the Swan house before she knew it. Angela parked her car in the gravelled spot beside the curb and turned to Bella, but Bella was still staring straight ahead with her mouth hanging open.

"So," Angela said. "How about tomorrow?"

"Huh?"

"Coat shopping. You want to go to the mall tomorrow?"

"Oh." Bella shook herself. "Yeah. I do need a new coat. Uh, good idea. Thanks." She opened the door and slid out of her seat, still half-dazed.

Angela said she'd come by in the morning and pulled away from the curb. Bella stumped slowly up the porch steps. _Not the only one,_ she thought. _Not the only one..._

She had noticed the Clearwaters' battered, brown Suburban was parked in Charlie's driveway, so she wasn't surprised to see Harry when she entered the living room. But she was surprised to see Billy. In tears.

Her eyes flew around the room wildly, noting the crumpled tissues on Billy's lap, Charlie's "only on holidays" bourbon with three shot glasses on the coffee table, and Billy's family photo album lying open on the couch with pictures spilling out of it. Billy sat slumped with his head hanging low. When Charlie looked up at her, his eyes were teary, too.

"What happened?" she cried. "Is is Jake? Is he okay?"

Harry had his arm around Billy. "No, no," he said. "Jake's fine. Billy's just had a... bad day."

Bella looked to her father.

"Very bad day," confirmed Charlie. "Would you mind, uh...We need some time alone. Man stuff."

"Oh. Okay..." Bella crept up the stairs. Something was wrong, very wrong, and she knew it.

She hovered in her bedroom doorway, listening for their voices. But the murmur of their conversation only lasted a few seconds before Charlie hollered, "Shut the door, Bella!"

_Fine._ She closed the door to her room and sat down on her bed. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something awful must have happened. To distract herself, she logged in to her email account and checked her messages. Her mother had written her four times today. Opening the messages, she saw that they were all about a new psychic communication class her mom was taking, and a bunch of P.S. notes.

"You can talk with cats!" her Renee had written in the first P.S. "Actually hear what they're thinking!" The next P.S. said, "Phil's cat wants tuna. I just know it." And in the third P.S., "Okay, I gave her the tuna, and she thanked me. With her eyes. It was incredible."

Bella was glad that her mother couldn't see her thumping her forehead against the palm of her hand before she replied. "Dear Mom," she typed, "That's just—" _one of many reasons why I'm glad I moved to Forks "—_awesome. Thank you for telling me about..." _Blah, blah, blah._ She had been writing to her mother on auto-pilot for so long that the platitudes just typed themselves.

The ringing of the phone drew her attention downstairs. It rang and rang. _Wasn't her father going to answer that?_

"Bella!" Charlie hollered up the stairs again. "Get the phone!"

_Apparently not._

She hustled down into the kitchen and lifted the receiver from its hook. "Hello?" she said.

"Hey." It was Jake. His greeting held that hint of masculine gruffness that was deepening his voice more and more lately. He told her that he was going to take his driver's license exam tomorrow morning, and he wanted her to wish him luck.

Even though Harry had already told her that Jake was fine, she was so glad to hear his voice that she noticed herself trembling a little from relief. She was thankful Jake couldn't see her; he'd read too much into her flustered state. She took a deep breath and smiled into the phone. "You'll nail it," she said. "You're already a good driver."

"Well, I'm a little worried because the Rabbit isn't finished yet, and Harry's going to let me drive his truck. It's kind of a land-boat."

"You'll do great," she assured him.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah..." she breathed. And then she noticed that she'd been twining the phone cord around and around on her finger like some moony-eyed dope. She had to turn her face away from the adults in the living room so they wouldn't see her blush.

"Bells?" Jake had dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "Are you... Are you twirling the phone cord around your finger? You know, that super-long cord of Charlie's?"

"What? Noooooo..." How could he know that? She dropped the cord instantly, hoping her ineptitude for lying wasn't detectable over the phone. "Why would you—?"

"Oh, no reason..." He sighed. "Hey, is my dad over there?"

"Yeah," she said, straightening up. "He's here. Harry, too."

"Well, finally!" said Jacob. "I've been calling all over the rez looking for him."

He went on to describe his frustrating afternoon. He'd had dinner with Quil, and when he came home, he saw the back door fly open so hard it smacked the side of the house. Embry shot out and went running across the grass, stripping off his shirt and flinging it on the ground. Then he dove into the woods. Jacob had gone after him and spent half an hour thrashing around in the trees, calling his name.

"It was like he disappeared. And his face. He looked like—like _agony. _I tried so hard to find him, till I was soaked and freezing cold. Then I went back home and was like, "Dad, what the hell?" and he just ordered me to chop more firewood. Again! I've been chopping wood all week for that fucker."

The pile of logs, he said, was as tall as he was now. "Why is he making me do this? I'm scared that he's dying or something and wants me to stock up in case I'm too much of a mess to do it later."

"No, no..." Bella shushed him. "Don't say that. It doesn't make sense."

She pressed the receiver to her ear, wishing she could be there with him. She knew where he was, slouched on the kitchen stool near the doorway. She could picture him stretching his long legs under the counter as he spoke. "And anyway," she continued, "he seems pretty healthy. Kind of upset, though." She described the scene in her living room.

"Weird," Jake said. "I tell you, Bells, I'm worried."

She could hear his breath ghosting over the phone as he sighed, and it made a delightful shiver run down her spine. Thank goodness he couldn't see her.

"And then, while I'm out there in the cold," he continued, "working my ass off at the woodpile, Harry shows up, and he and my dad just drive off."

"Yeah. They're all sitting around in our living room now."

"Well, what the heck? I chop wood and he—damn, I am having the _worst_ day. My dad won't talk to me, Embry gives me the slip, I run around yelling for him till I'm cold and drenched, then my dad..." Jacob's words trailed off. Bella could almost feel his heart pounding in the weighty silence at the other end of the phone.

"What is it?" she asked.

"My dad...my best friend... Oh, shit. Oh, my God."

"What?"

"I just thought of something. Oh, shit."

"Something bad?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Oh, my God."

"Are you ok?"

"Yes. No."

He was pacing, Bella was sure. "Jake? Do you... Do you want me to come over?" She would. She would do it gladly; she would jump in the truck and speed there so fast—

"Yes. No. I... Oh my God, I think I'm going to be sick."

Bella could feel his distress knotting her up inside, just as if it were her own. "What can I do?" she asked.

"Ask my dad to come home."

"Okay."

"And tell him... Tell him I love him."

"Okay."

"Please tell him," said Jacob.

"I will."

"I gotta go. Thanks, Bells. I'll explain this later, I promise." His voice shook. "I— I just need to talk to my dad right now. Tell him to come home."

She hung up the phone. Every cell in her body was buzzing with anxiety as she floated into the living room on feet that felt like they weren't touching the floor. Something big was happening, something she didn't understand, and it was hurting Jake.

The men looked up at her entrance.

"Jacob wants you," she said to Billy. "He wants you to come home."

Billy's expression melted into the same kind of agony Jacob had described on Embry's face.

"He says he loves you."

Billy gave a sob into his hands and Harry rubbed his shoulder.

"It's okay," said Charlie. "It'll be okay."

Bella stared at Billy. Was this the same man who had frightened her just a few days ago, who had grabbed her arm and told her that she didn't know what love was? Whether that were true or not, she _did_ know what suffering was. She couldn't be mad at him anymore. Not when she could feel the distress rolling off of him and Jacob like the heavy waves in the winter ocean. She wished she could help, but the best thing she could think of was to bring him his coat.

Charlie and Harry helped Billy to the door and carried his chair down the steps of the porch. The night air had turned bitter cold, but the wind had died down. In the stillness, a heavy snow was beginning to fall. The fat flakes brushed against her eyelashes, her shoulders, as she followed them outside. Harry started the engine and turned on the windshield wipers as Billy settled into the passenger seat and Charlie stowed the wheelchair in the back of the Suburban.

Bella tapped on Billy's window. He rolled it down, and his face looked pinched and pained, just as she had pictured Jacob's face while he paced in his kitchen. The deep lines around his mouth and eyes shadowed some heavy grief, she was sure. "What can I do?" she asked him. "Can I— Can I do something?"

Billy recovered himself enough to give her a sad, crooked smile. "There's one thing," he said. "I was going to order a big cake for Jacob. For the party tomorrow. But I didn't make it to the store today because... Well, I just didn't make it. Charlie always talks about your cooking. Do you think—?"

"Done," she said. She looked him straight in the eye. She wanted him to know that she wouldn't let them down. Whatever else might be going on right now, they could count on a cake from her. "It can be my gift to him."

"Good girl," said Charlie. He put his arm around her and brushed the snow from her hair.

"No, no," said Billy. "That's too much. Please, take this." He passed a crumpled, heavy envelope to her through the window. "I was saving this money to buy the cake."

Bella tried decline his offer, but Billy insisted. As Harry was backing out of the driveway, she thought of another question and trotted after the truck. She had to put her hand on the hood to steady herself on the slippery pavement. She tapped on Billy's window again.

"How big a cake do you need?" she asked. "How many people?"

There was a twinkle in his eye that let her know he would soon be himself again. "Oh," he said, "about four hundred."

_What?! _

To her incredulous stare, he added, "I think about half the tribe is going to show up."

Harry rolled out into the street.

"Four hundred?" cried Bella, staggering after them.

"Of course!" said Harry, and Billy, leaning from the window now, gave her a genuine grin, the one that looked so much like his son's.

"He's our prince!" said Billy proudly. Then the truck sped off through the snow.

Bella stood there in the driveway, repeating, "Four hundred?" until Charlie laughed and thwacked her on the back. "You can do it," he said. Halfway up the porch steps, Charlie realized that Bella was not coming with him, and he had to go back and grab her hand, towing her inside.

She immediately telephoned Angela. "I don't think I can go shopping with you tomorrow," she said. As she described the problem, she bustled around the kitchen, opening cupboards and checking the baking supplies. She assembled them on the counter.

"Okay," she said, "I've got two sticks of butter, some baking soda—oh, no, it's expired—six eggs, a Hershey bar, and a bag of flour that looks like a mouse ate some of it."

Still holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder, she banged around in the broiling pan beneath the oven, where Charlie stored the pans he used least often.

"And there's only one cake tin!" she cried. "For a freaking Bundt cake!"

Bella threw the broiler pan closed with a bang and slid down the cupboards until she slumped, puddle-like, on the floor.

"What am I going to do?" she wailed. "Making this crap into a cake is going to be like...like spinning straw into gold! I need a fairy godmother."

Angela laughed. "Would _my_ mother do?"

"Huh?"

Angela explained that as a minister's wife, her mom was adept at cooking for large numbers of people. "She bakes for weddings and church picnics all the time, so four hundred is easy for her. Especially if you only need to make dessert."

Bella groaned her thanks.

They made plans to meet early the next morning. Angela said they could use the church kitchen, which had plenty of counter-space and three ovens. "And we can still go shopping in the afternoon," she promised.

Charlie looked smug when Bella told him that Angela would help her. "I was going to suggest that," he smirked. "Your grandma used to bake for the church picnics with Mrs. Weber, you know. That kitchen is huge."

Bella was too relieved to roll her eyes at him. Instead, she told him that she would turn in early since she had a busy day of baking tomorrow. "Okay," said Charlie, bending to clean up the drinks and tissues from Billy's visit. Bella saw his smile fade as he turned away from her, and it set her to worrying again about Jacob. She climbed the stairs and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth.

What had happened tonight to upset Jake and Billy so badly? She had no idea, but she wished she could comfort Jake somehow. She imagined speeding to La Push in her truck, like she had offered, and rushing to his house to... to do what? _That_ thought made her worry more, in a different way. She spat toothpaste in the sink and looked at herself sternly in the mirror. _Edward! You. Love. Edward. _

Lying under her grandma's quilts, Bella turned to the window. The moon was nearly full, casting a delicate light on the snowflakes falling past the glass. Already, the lawns and streets of Forks were blanketed with a deepening stillness, the branches of the pines draped in silver.

She was glad that she could make the birthday cake for Jacob's party. It would be a good gift. A friendly gift. A friendly gift from a good friend, given in friendship. _Friend, friend, friend,_ she reminded herself. _Nothing more. _She decided that her mixed-up feelings for Jacob were probably temporary, like a silly crush. She would never speak of it to anyone, she resolved, and it would go away. Maybe.

She thought again about that moment in Angela's car, when she had realized she wasn't alone in her heartbreak. The web of ties that bound her to Forks felt stronger now.

Charlie's feet thumped on the stairs, then in the hallway. She heard the creak of his bedroom door. A few days ago, when they had worn the same green flannel shirt, Charlie remarked wryly that they were too much alike. Those words made more sense to her now, in a way that caused her to sit up suddenly in bed, her throat feeling hot and tight. _Not the only one..._

"Dad?" she called.

She heard his feet crossing the hall; her door opened a crack.

"Yes?" he said.

How could she speak what was in her heart now?

"I— Um, goodnight," was all she could choke out.

There was a long pause. When Charlie spoke, she felt that somehow, he understood. "Goodnight, sweetie," he said.

Outside her window, snow fell upon the forest, the town, and the sea. It fell upon the Swan house and upon the little red house in La Push, where a father and son talked and wept together. It covered the land in a quietude new and clean, falling in truest absolution, all through the night.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading, and thanks to my many new subscribers recently. I long to hear your opinions in a review!<em>

_A while back, I calculated that 5% of FF readers take a moment to leave a note for the authors. That can be a little discouraging for the writers. And that's why reviews matter so much. But then I realized that in MY story, that percentage is a little higher! My readers are awesome! Thanks, you all. Please know that I treasure your comments and take them seriously as I learn what works and what needs improvement in my story. It is especially helpful to hear if my humor is hitting the mark, or if the foreshadowing I'm sowing is sprouting in a recognizable way. And hey, even if you are reading this months after it was originally posted, I still would love to hear your thoughts. Merci!_


	15. Chapter 15 Arrested Development

_Author's Note: This is the longest chapter I have written yet. I just couldn't find a place to break it! So ya'll better get yourselves a snack. :-) I hope you like it! The chapter that is, not your snack. Okay, I hope you like your snack, too._

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Arrested Development**

The morning of Saturday, January 31 revealed the heaviest snowfall Forks had seen all winter. It was, in fact, the most snow Bella had ever seen in her life. She knelt at her window in the pre-dawn darkness, enchanted with the sight outside.

The earth had been transformed. The housetops, cars along the street, the bushes in her neighbors' yards, the mailboxes and porches, all had been muffled beneath what looked to be two feet of snow. In the early darkness, the snow reflected the deep purple of the fading night sky, and the pines at the edge of the forest were black and still.

Such beauty. She hadn't seen anything to compare since the perfect face of the one she loved. Impulsively, she threw up the sash and leaned out into the biting cold air. Her hands sank through several inches snow to grip the ragged edge of her broken windowsill, and, lifting her face to the purple dawn, she breathed the coldness into her body.

_Edward, where are you? _Her heart strained so hard against her chest she thought she would break apart. Hot tears cooled on her cheeks and fell into the snow, vanishing. Looking out at the woods where he had disappeared, she had to choke back a sob. _ Why did he leave? Was all of their love just a lie? _ The black trees blurred before her eyes.

Slowly, the sky brightened, and the landscape paled to dusky lavender, shimmering lilac, and then bright, shining white. She raised her head and looked east, toward the street. Over the tops of the houses, a red glow simmered at the horizon. The air above it was streaked with pink, yellow, and burning orange, and as the glow spread over the sky, shadows receded into the forest. Turning westward, toward the backyard, she watched the light creep up the branches of the pines until they shone silver.

_Oh! _she gasped. It was even more beautiful than before, and she worried that somehow it was unfair to Edward to find it so. But she could hardly help it. She rubbed her forearm across her nose and smiled shakily. The pristine plain of the backyard lay still and smooth, with no footsteps or tracks of any kind, and she felt a possibility awakening in her. Today was new. Today was a fresh start.

She stood then and was surprised to see that the snow on the windowsill had melted. Her hands were pink and tingling. Had she done this? Melted the snow with her own small hands? She looked at them as if she had never seen them before.

Then she raised her arms to shut the window, but there, at the edge of the forest, a flash of movement caught her eye. _Edward?_ She strained to make out the form slinking through the trees. Something was out there. The brush pile that Charlie had made when he cleaned up fallen branches lay at the back of the yard, bordering the woods, and the shadowy thing moved toward it. The brush pile shifted. It rustled. And whatever was digging through it was bigger than a rabbit, bigger than a deer. Could it be a bear? When the animal reared up from the waist-high pile of sticks, she saw the chest and arms of a man.

Not just any man. It was Paul Lahote.

And he was holding the gray, broken board that had once been her windowsill, which he himself had busted from the house by trying to climb up and peek at her. Charlie had tossed it back there yesterday. And now, _holy shhhhhhh...sugar!_ Did Paul want that thing for some kind of sick souvenir? Was he stalking her? He was bare-chested, despite the cold, and his huge, tall, muscled body seemed to radiate a kind of menace.

"Charlie!" she screeched. "Dad!"

Paul raised his eyes to hers with a deliberation that bore no hint of shame or fear. His insolence chilled her far more than the snow. She felt like he had pinned her to the wall with his stare.

"Charlie!" she screeched again.

Paul stood there, his black eyes upon her, until she heard her father stirring. Then his lips peeled back from his white teeth in a razor-like sneer, and he turned and slipped into the trees. The pine branches spilled no snow at his passing.

"Bella?" Her father stood in her doorway, his hair ruffled, his bathrobe on crookedly.

"I—" _ How could she explain what had happened? A guy looked at me? _

Charlie surveyed the room with the eyes of a cop, noting the open window, the melted snow on the sill, her flushed face and wild, watery eyes. Then he strode to the window and scanned the yard. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he raised an eyebrow at her by way of requesting an explanation.

"Snow," said Bella. "I was... um, it's pretty." She shrugged, hoping he would buy her insouciance. She rubbed her damp hands on her pajamas.

"Why is—" began her father, but then, unexpectedly, the phone started to ring in the kitchen.

Charlie passed a hand down his face, smoothing his mustache and stretching his jaw with a yawn. "That's probably the station," he said. As he headed downstairs, she heard him grumbling about wanting a day off, and she exhaled with relief. Something about Paul showing up here was not right, but as the fear faded, she felt like she ought to tell Jake about it instead of her father. Jake had said that he and Quil would find a way to make those guys back off.

"It's for you," Charlie called.

Puzzled, she tromped down into the kitchen and took the phone.

"Time to make the doughnuts!" chirped a girl's cheery voice.

"Angela?"

"Come on, Bella! It's almost seven o'clock and we've got to get to the church!"

"Oh, Ange. I don't think we can pray four hundred people's worth of cake into existence."

"No, silly, we're baking!"

"Doughnuts?"

"Cakes. Cakes! The doughnut joke is just a saying from an old TV commercial. Geez, are you even awake yet?"

Bella groaned. "Give me half an hour."

Charlie slopped some milk over a bowl of raisin bran and slid it toward her across the table. Then he went upstairs to get dressed, and when he came down, he laced up his steel-toed boots and opened the backdoor. Bella watched him wade through the deep snow, his legs plowing two tracks behind him. He poked around near the brush pile, and she hoped he wouldn't find Paul's footprints. That guy seemed to have a crush on her, she decided, but he had a mighty weird way of showing it. Then again, after Edward had expressed his romantic interest by hiding in her room to watch her sleep, a guy stealing little pieces of her house did not seem too unusual.

The door opened again with a chilly gust. "What kind of animal was it?" Charlie asked, stomping the snow from his boot treads onto the mat in the laundry room.

"Hmm?" She looked up, milk dripping from her chin.

"I know you saw something earlier, outside your window. Was it a bear? The paw prints are huge."

She blinked. _What was going on?_ "I don't know," she muttered, and Charlie, frowning, went upstairs to take a shower.

* * *

><p>When Bella arrived at the church, she slogged through the snowy parking lot to the door of the annex. In the kitchen of the fellowship hall, Angela and her mother had already assembled the ingredients and were mixing cake batter. Her twin brothers, eight years old, were sitting on the counter, cracking eggs in to a giant stainless steel bowl. Their brown hair was sticking up in every direction and they were still in their pajamas, printed with little monkeys, but they were wide awake and debating the merits of chocolate cake and yellow cake. Angela paused in her stirring to give her a little wave.<p>

"Which one, Bella?" called Mrs. Weber as she stirred the batter. "Would your friend like chocolate or yellow?"

Bella took off her boots and surveyed the room. She noted the three ovens Charlie had mentioned along one wall, a large double sink, and what seemed like yards and yards of cupboards and counter space, all painted bright white and aqua blue. As she peeled off her coat and draped it over a chair, she thought that it was almost like a dream kitchen from one of the cooking shows she liked.

"Um, chocolate?" she said. She hoped she was guessing right, but she figured Jake would be happy with anything. That's just how he was.

"Great," said Mrs. Weber. "You can make the frosting." She handed Bella an enormous bowl of powdered sugar. "Start blending in the butter."

The morning passed quickly. Bella laughed to see the mess the twins made of themselves as they dusted the cake tins with flour, and she marveled at Mrs. Weber's well-stocked pantry. Presumably in anticipation of the church's needs, the shelves were loaded with all kinds of baking supplies and canned goods. It looked like the way she had imagined Vera's father's dry goods store—or maybe a bomb shelter. Had Billy known about the Webers' kitchen when he gave her this Herculean task? She was starting to think he knew more than he let on, about all kinds of things.

Angela's mother had calculated that eleven full-sized sheet cakes would feed a crowd of four hundred. She directed Bella, Angela, and the twins in an assembly line process that would have made Henry Ford proud. Bella was happy to work under her direction, for she led with a quiet kindness that made her feel at ease.

Tall and slim like her daughter, Mrs. Weber floated between the girls and her sons, gently correcting the boys when they dropped bits of eggshell into their bowl. As she whipped the eggs into the batter, her long brown hair swayed behind her like water over stones in a stream. She kept tucking strands of it behind her ears until Angela, with a kiss, braided it for her. Biting her lip, Bella had to look away. She had never had that kind of interaction with Renee.

When it was time to pour the batter into the pans, Angela had to help her lift the bowl, it was so heavy. Then they ran the cakes in batches through all three of the ovens, scenting the air with sweetness and warmth, and at last, around lunch time, they had all of them frosted and packed in large Tupperware boxes. Across one cake, in sunny orange icing and her most careful cursive, Bella had written, "Happy Birthday, Jacob."

Reverend Weber brought peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everyone, and Bella, exhausted and sticky with chocolate batter, had never in her life been so glad to see that humble meal. Angela raised her sandwich to Bella's in a celebratory toast. "We did it," she grinned. And Bella could hardly believe that it had happened. Cake for four hundred people!

She tried to stutter her thanks, but they waved off her words.

"Any friend of Angela's is a friend of ours," declared the Reverend. And one of the boys added, "Any friend of Angela's friend should have lots of cake!"

The Webers helped her carry all of the boxes to her truck. Remembering the money Billy had given her, Bella pulled the crumpled envelope from her coat pocket and passed it to Angela's mother. "For the ingredients," she explained.

Mrs. Weber looked in the envelope. "This is too much!" she said. She removed a few of the bills and gave the rest back to Bella. "Tell Chief Black thank you."

"But he should be thanking _you,_" Bella protested.

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Weber. "What an honor this is!" She smiled in a way that lit up her brown eyes. "Baking for the whole tribe! You should be proud, honey." And then, to Bella's astonishment, she pulled her in for a hug and kissed her temple.

Bella squirmed under the unfamiliar motherly affection, mumbling that really, it was only half the tribe. But she pressed her face to Mrs. Weber's sweater and breathed in her soft scent. Lilies of the valley and vanilla extract. When she stepped away, the winter air felt colder on her face.

Driving home, she replayed those words in her mind: an honor. Billy didn't hate her, she realized. He had known she could do this, and do it well. He had chosen her. _He had faith in her._

* * *

><p>Angela followed Bella home in her little white Corolla since it would make far better time on their shopping trip to Port Angeles than her truck would. The girls had just finished carrying all the cake boxes inside when Charlie called Bella to the phone.<p>

"It's Jacob," he said. "For you. Again."

Bella frowned at her father's mirth. Snatching the receiver, she turned her back to hide her red face.

Jacob said he had earned his driver's license. He'd passed the test that morning at the tiny DMV office in Forks, despite driving Harry Clearwater's cumbersome Chevy Suburban. His friend Embry, he said, had failed when he took it a few months ago, bombing the parallel parking component by running over some of the cones. He'd had to re-test.

"Not me," said Jake. "I nailed it."

"I knew you would," she smiled.

"And speaking of Embry," he continued, "I have so much to tell you. But I want to say it in person. It's really important."

"Okay." She settled into the conversation, idly twining the telephone's long cord around one finger.

"You know," he said then, dropping the tenor of his voice, "this means I can drive you around in the Rabbit now. As soon as I get it running." He promised to take her to Ruby Beach, to the Port Angeles ferry, or up to the top of Hurricane Ridge, wherever she wanted. Bella peered around the kitchen doorway and saw that Charlie and Angela were talking with each other in the living room, so she let herself relax, picturing herself snuggled into the passenger seat of Jake's little car. Leaning against the wall, she chewed her lip to keep from smiling too much. But then Jacob ruined it.

"Bella?" he whispered, "are you twirling the phone cord again?"

She looked down at her hands. _Darn it! How did he know this? _"No!" she said, hurriedly untangling the cord and dropping it like it was a tarantula. "Of course not."

"Whatever, Bells," said Jake, and she could feel his smug satisfaction in his voice. "The line goes all staticky when you do that, you know."

"I wasn't—"

"I'm just saying."

There was a long pause, during which she knew Jacob was grinning at her as she blushed. Then he said, "Hang on a minute, someone's at the door," and while he checked on that, she pulled open a drawer, found a roll of masking tape, and fastened the traitorous phone cord to the wall.

"Quil's here," said Jacob when he returned. She could hear his friend saying, "Hi, Bella!" in the background. "Anyway," Jake continued, "my dad's taking me out tonight for my birthday, to Pacific Pizza in Forks, and I was wondering—" he was turning red as he spoke, she knew it "—if you'd like to, um, come to dinner with me."

And just like that, her heart lurched into her throat.

She couldn't speak. Her fingers trembled against the receiver, and tears welled up in her eyes. It was too soon, far too soon, to have to confront Jacob's crush in the form of this invitation and turn him down, on his birthday of all days, possibly ending their friendship and thus cutting herself off from the balm of his company. And then there was the surprise party. That alone, keeping it secret, compelled her to say the words she knew would hurt him.

"Jake, I—" she began, but her voice quavered, and she couldn't finish. _No, no, no! _wailed her heart. _I need him._

Jacob seemed to sense her panic. "Not like a date!" he hastened to add. "Not like that. I just—Um, Charlie, too. Both you and Charlie."

She let out a shuddering breath. "Oh," she said, and smudged away one of the tears that had rolled down her face. She was thankful he couldn't see her, crying and shaking so hard she had to sit down.

From somewhere in Jake's kitchen or living room, she heard Quil hollering faintly, "He's trying to ask you out, Bella!" and then there was a scuffling sound. "Have mercy on him!" cried Quil, and then he said, _"Ooof!"_ as, presumably, Jacob socked him in the gut.

"Sorry about that," said Jake. "So do you think maybe—"

The voice in the background interrupted with, "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's a-mooooor-raaaaay!"

"God damn it, Quil!" said Jacob. "Shut up!"

Bella took a deep, steadying breath and made herself say the awful words: "Jake, I can't." And she meant more than just today, more than just this pizza invitation. _I can't be what you want. _ She had to close her eyes as she imagined his face falling. "I'll see you soon, though?"

She phrased it like a question because what she wanted to say was, _Can you forgive me?_

There was a pause. Then Jake said, "It's cool," but she knew it wasn't.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"No, no, it's okay. I'll just, um, maybe I'll ask Seth. And Harry."

The singing began again, in an exaggerated Italian accent: "When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine, that's a-mooooor-raaaay!"

Bella heard the phone clatter onto Jacob's kitchen counter. She couldn't clearly make out what was happening, but she could picture the boys chasing each other around the living room sofa. Jacob kept saying, "Shut _UP, _Quil! For the love of God!" and Quil kept on singing, punctuated by Jacob's fists, "When you walk in a dream—_Ooof!_—but you know you're not dreaming, Seen-yore-ay!—_Ooof!_—that's a-mooooor—_Ooof! Ooof! Ooof!_" There was a pause, and then she heard a triumphant "Raaaaaay!" and _"Ooof!"_ once again.

"I gotta go," said Jacob when he returned to the phone. "Places to go, things to do, people whose asses I've got to kick."

Her nervous tension left her in a laugh. Jake could always make things better. "Kick him for me, too," she said.

* * *

><p>Bella invited Angela to come upstairs with her while she changed out of her messy baking clothes. She also changed the bandage on the back of her hip, and Angela remarked that the road rash from her motorcycle wipeout was looking a lot better. Bella was able to wear her jeans again without being uncomfortable. Then the girls stood in front of Bella's closet and surveyed the choices.<p>

"Um," said Angela as sweetly as possible, "do you have any shirts that aren't plaid and flannel?"

Bella looked at all the shirts hanging there. "Huh," she said. "I guess I don't."

_How had this happened? _ When she'd moved here from Arizona, she'd had plenty of clothes in many styles. But then there was Edward. He'd told her that anything remotely sexy about her actions or appearance could cause him to lose control. So she had gotten rid of most of her old things and begun to dress in ever bigger and boxier shirts that hid her curves and left her slender arms and legs sticking out from a shapeless plaid bag in the middle.

"Is it because of your ancestors?" Angela asked. "Are you, um, Scottish, maybe?"

No. She was not Scottish. But she had been dressing like a bagpipe.

Angela sifted through the closet. "What about Alice?" she asked. "Didn't you use to go shopping with her a lot?"

_Alice._ The familiar, hurtful emptiness burned in Bella's chest. Yes, Alice had taken her shopping. Many times. She remembered barreling down the highway at vampire speed, gripping the armrest of the car, her eyes wide, as Alice careened around logging trucks and station wagons full of kids, chattering all the while about lingerie boutiques in Seattle. She'd towed Bella through stores where the smallest item cost more than all her paychecks from Newton's, combined. It had been embarrassing to see Alice shed money like a snake shed scales on dresses, shoes, and nightgowns that Bella would never want or use. When she protested, Alice would clap her hands and squeal, insisting that she would like them later. "I have seen it!" she'd say.

Then Bella would be stuffed back into that stupid, shiny Volvo and taken to the Cullens' home, where Alice made her try on the dresses that were too short, the blouses that were too sheer, and parade herself before Edward for his approval. It never came. Again and again, he would clench his jaw and stride from the room. _What had Alice been playing at?_

"Where's all the clothes she bought you?" wondered Angela, turning from the closet.

The memory that flooded her then made Bella wince: she saw her hands, gashed and bloody from prying Emmett's stereo out of her truck after the horrible..._after._ And then she'd gathered all of Alice's dresses and carried them outside to hurl them over the porch railing. She had been sobbing because no matter how hard she threw them, they drifted to the grass like a cloud of silk and taffeta butterflies, printed with the red agony of her hands. Charlie had picked them up, one by one, and silently dropped them in the trashcan. It was the last thing she could remember doing before she sank into the nothingness of that autumn.

"I got rid of them," she mumbled. She tugged a plaid shirt from its hanger and stuffed her arms through the sleeves.

"But I thought you liked shopping!" said Angela and Bella's fingers trembled on the buttons. Her love for the Cullens twisted inside her against the truth she had never been able to say to Alice.

Looking at the floor, she whispered, "I don't like it." Then the tightness in her chest eased a bit, and she said louder, "I actually don't like it."

Angela's face bloomed pink with delight. "Me neither!" she beamed. "I hate it! It's so boring, and my feet hurt, and I get thirsty. I only asked you to go today because I knew you needed a coat, and I wanted to hang out with you."

Bella stared at her. It was all the things she had wanted to say, over and over again, to Alice.

"Come on," said Angela, taking her hand and towing her along. "Let's get you some new shirts!"

Bella stumped down the stairs after her, a slow, incredulous smile widening on her face.

"And we'll only go to one store, and then come right back!"

_Too good to be true,_ Bella thought. _Maybe they could go to Sears, or JCPenney. Buy things she could actually afford. _

Angela held out Bella's coat for her to put on, and when she saw the tattered hem, she remembered something.

"Hang on a minute." She led Angela to the laundry room on the back porch, where she lifted the lid of the washing machine and pulled out several soggy shreds of cotton. Somehow, the condition of the garments had become _worse_ in the washer. Bella held the ribbons of Jacob's T-shirts in her hands and stared at them, dumbfounded.

"Yikes," said Angela. "What did those use to be?"

She told her how Jake had mopped up her blood with them when she'd crashed on her motorcycle. Twice.

"You ruined the birthday boy's shirts?"

Bella stuffed them into the waste basket and hastily covered them with some old papers, hoping Charlie would never notice. "What am I going to do?" she fretted.

Raising her hands to her face in mock horror, Angela said, "Gosh. If only we were going to a place that sold clothing."

Bella blinked. "Okay, I guess I could have thought of that."

"And please don't be offended, but this is your chance to get a more flattering coat."

"What?"

Very gently, Angela explained that Carhardt was more of an industrial brand, favored by plumbers and construction workers. People who drove pickup trucks with too many tires on the back. And farmers. "It's sort of... agriculture-chic," she cringed.

Bella looked down at her tan, canvas coat with the leather cuffs and the big "C" logo embroidered on the front pocket. "Yeah," she conceded. "Charlie got this for me last winter. And I'm pretty sure he shops at the Feed-n-Seed on the south end of town."

"Maybe he got your shirts there, too. From the Scottish collection by Angus O'Bag Lady."

Bella felt sheepish, but she let herself smile. "Probably. Or they were designed by Paddy O'Furniture."

"Oh, that's a good one," grinned Angela. "And that's the first joke I've heard you make in months." She squeezed Bella's hand and pulled her again toward the front door.

"Be back by six," called Charlie.

* * *

><p>Shopping with Angela was so much better than shopping with Alice. They headed to a modestly priced department store, and at her friend's urging, Bella chose a red wool coat with shiny black buttons and a tying belt that matched her red hat from Newton's.<p>

"Look, you have a waist," Angela teased.

In the dressing room's mirror, Bella saw a girl with a slender, pleasing figure and rosy cheeks. _Is that me?_ Her eyes were a sparkling brown; her skin looked creamy and healthy. Even her hair seemed to look better, curling below her shoulders upon the bright fabric.

"Tan was such a bad color for you," said Angela. "Now how about these?" She handed Bella a few sweaters she had picked up.

"I don't know..." began Bella. The sweaters looked so much smaller than the flannel shirts she was used to. But Angela persuaded her to give one a try. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she was again surprised. She looked... She looked... _Wow._

"Well, what do you know," said Angela, in her snarkiest imitation of Lauren Mallory. "You _do_ have boobs!"

"You don't think it's too tight, do you?"

"No. Not at all. It just fits you properly."

She looked at her reflection again. The winter white of the sweater set her creamy skin aglow. She looked like—_oh, my God_—she looked like a happy person would look. Angela ran out to the sales floor to find more colors of the sweater that fit so well, and Bella just stood there, staring at herself. _Could_ she be happy again, one day? She could hardly imagine it, but she realized that she wanted it. So bad.

When her friend came back, she agreed to buy four more sweaters.

Then Angela said, "Geez, I'm so thirsty now," and they stopped in a cafe. Bella again contrasted this experience with Alice, who had rarely remembered her human needs. She blew across the latte in her big, warm mug. This was good. Bella had decided to wear her new white sweater and red coat home from the store, and now she sank into a snuggly, overstuffed chair, basking in her friend's compliments, and soaking up the vibrancy around her: a group of young men laughing, the busy tapping of keys on someone's laptop, the hazelnut sweetness floating from Angela's cocoa, and the cheery warmth of a fire crackling in a little stone hearth. The bell above the door jingled as a man and woman came in, murmuring to one another in soft voices. She was smiling up as him as he unwound a green scarf from her collar.

Bella watched that woman. Could she ever feel that way again, gaze up at someone like that? She doubted it. Edward could never be forgotten, and her heart had drowned, she thought, in the black, icy water of that pond in her dream with the deer. She remembered how the fear of the animal had been her fear, too, and how she had awakened screaming for someone to help that poor deer.

Charlie was helping her. And now Angela was helping her, too. Maybe she could find a way to be happy with love from a parent, from a friend. Maybe... Maybe losing Edward wasn't the end of _everything. _ Vera had survived the same kind of loss. Maybe she could, too.

She knew that Angela had her own loss. Ben had moved away, and she probably wanted to talk to a friend about it. But Bella couldn't listen to that kind of sadness. Not yet. However, there was one thing she _could_ do.

She rose from her chair and leaned over Angela, wrapping her arms around her and squeezing her.

"Well, what's this for?" laughed Angela.

"Everything," Bella said into her hair. "Just...everything."

Angela hugged her back. "Thanks for letting me come with you today," she said.

"Oh, no!" said Bella. "I should thank you." She was reminded of her talk that morning with Mrs. Weber. A friend, too, was an honor. Something to be thankful for.

As they were leaving the cafe, she noticed another shop across the street advertising custom printed T-shirts. "Your Design, While-U-Wait!" proclaimed the sign. It made her think of another person whose friendship she was thankful to have. A person who needed some new shirts.

"Would you mind just a little more shopping?" she said to Angela, and half an hour later, they were headed home with two gift-wrapped boxes, tied with sunny orange ribbon.

* * *

><p>When she came in, Charlie was seated at the kitchen table, preparing to roll up his birthday present for Jacob in what looked to be a guy's version of gift-wrap: an old paper bag. "I saved you some dinner," he said, waving his hand toward a bowl of stew on the counter. His fingers had Scotch tape stuck to them. Then he said, "Hey, nice coat!"<p>

"Thanks." Bella ate the stew standing up, leaning against the counter with her uninjured hip. "What's that?"

"It's for Jake's car. Every new driver should have one." He brandished a three foot plastic stick in the air. It had a spatula-like contraption at one end and a row of bristles at the other that reminded her of a walrus. Or a humongous toothbrush.

"Is that like an anti-theft device or something?"

"It's a scraper." To her blank stare, he added, "For snow and ice. On the windshield." He spun the roll of tape around the package two or three times, muttering about Renee and the god-forsaken climate of Arizona. "I got you one, too, last year. Didn't you use it?"

Bella thought about the strange bristled stick under the seat of her truck. "I thought that was a broom for the interior. It was hard to sweep with it."

He just looked at her for a moment, then he bent over his wrapping job again, shaking his head.

Since Charlie insisted upon driving the cruiser, they loaded the cake boxes and the gifts into the trunk of the Crown Vic, and Bella buckled up in the front seat, holding the best cake, the one where she had written "Happy Birthday, Jacob" on her lap. They were halfway to La Push when Charlie pulled off the road in a stand of trees and cut the engine.

"What's going on?" asked Bella.

"Stake out," he replied.

He got out of the car and waded into the snowy forest a few yards from the road, calling for Bella to follow. "Make it fast," he said, pointing to a large pile of freshly cut pine branches that had apparently been chopped earlier that day.

"Huh?"

"Camouflage!" said Charlie. "Let's go." And he hefted several of the branches onto his shoulder and started back to the car.

Bella grabbed a branch and slogged after him. "Is this really necessary?" she asked, tugging the heavy pine bough behind her on the ground. It made a wide trail through the snow. By the time she trudged back to the car, Charlie had already jogged between her and the cuttings in the forest twice. He heaped the branches over the cruiser until just the headlights were visible. After Bella had flopped her one branch over the trunk with a huff, Charlie opened the passenger door about six inches, so as not to disturb his handiwork, and made her squeeze back into the vehicle. Then he dashed around to the other side and did the same.

It was much darker now inside the car. With all the branches pressed against the windows, Bella felt that it was like being stuck in a carwash operated by pine trees. "What are we doing?" she whined. "I can barely see through the windshield."

He started up the motor again and turned to her. His eyes were bright and crinkled at the corners as he grinned. "Haven't you ever watched _The Dukes of Hazzard_?"

"Sure."

"We're about to go all Rosco P. Coltrane on some speeders."

Bella had to think about that for a minute. Then she said, "Dad, Rosco was kind of a—" but she didn't get to finish because Charlie shushed her.

"Here they come," he said.

Bella couldn't see a thing besides pine needles. But Charlie seemed intent on the road, so she unbuckled her seat belt and leaned across his lap. Through a gap in the branches, she could see the La Push Road clearly now. And headed their way was a familiar, battered brown Chevy Suburban.

The Chevy's lights cast their feeble beams into the dusk, and the aging windshield wipers oscillated unevenly over the glass. It was clear that the driver was proceeding slowly and carefully on the snowy asphalt, for it took some time for the truck to reach them. As it rolled past, Bella saw Harry, Seth, and Billy squished across the bench seat in front, and at the wheel was none other than Jacob Black.

"Showtime," said Charlie, and he flipped on the sirens. With a great roar of the engine, the cruiser exploded from the pine boughs. For a moment, it was airborne, and Bella screamed. Then the car landed with a sickening bounce of the suspension. Red and blue lights swirled madly, and the Crown Vic fishtailed on the ice. Charlie leaned with the wild swerving, spinning the wheel left and right as he regained traction. He gunned the motor, the tires squealing, and sped after the Chevy.

Bella had been flung across the seat in the melee. Now she pulled her seatbelt into place and cried, "Dad! What are you doing?!"

"Apprehending a criminal," he replied, with a giddy grin.

"But that's Jacob!"

"I know!"

Sirens blaring, the cruiser pursued the Suburban. Trees flashed past the windows and Bella gripped the arm rest as hard as she could.

"It's his first day! He just got his license!"

"Exactly!"

The Suburban slid to a halt by the side of the road, and Charlie cut the sirens. But he left the lights flashing their manic circles over the snow. Bella had started to get out of the car and run to Jacob when Charlie grabbed her arm.

"Duck down," he commanded.

"What?"

"Down. Under the dashboard. You're small; you can fit in there. Now don't ruin this for me." He glared at her until she set her cake box on the seat and crouched in the footwell.

"What now?"

"Now we wait," said Charlie blithely. He peeled up a corner of the Tupperware box's lid and said, "Ooh, this looks good."

"It's not for you," she grumbled. She pressed the box closed again and pulled it close against her chest. "My knees hurt. Why are we waiting here?"

"Makes the driver more nervous," he said. "Standard procedure."

Finally Charlie put on his black Chief's hat with its gold badge above the brim. He picked up his ticket logbook and donned his dark-tinted aviators.

"You wear your sunglasses at night, Dad?"

"It's so I can, so I can, keep track of the visions in my eyes." His mustache curved upward with his own amusement. "Don't be afraid of a guy in shades, oh no."

Bella frowned at him until he said, "Oh, come on, you practically handed that to me on a silver platter!" She rolled her eyes, and he stepped out onto the road.

"Keep. Your head. DOWN," he hissed at her. Then he shut the door and strode toward the Chevy with slow and deliberate steps, the snow crunching under his boots.

After a moment, Bella decided to risk her father's displeasure and raise just her forehead and eyes above the dashboard. She saw Jacob roll down his window and pass his license to Charlie. Billy and Harry remained still, but Seth, she could see, was trying to lean across Jacob's lap to talk to her father. Charlie returned the license, and she sighed with relief. But then he pointed to the ground and stepped back from the driver's door.

She could tell Jacob was confused as he climbed down from the cab. Charlie directed him to turn around and place his hands behind his back, and then, to Bella's horror, he snapped a pair of handcuffs onto Jake's wrists.

Seth went frantic, leaning out of the door and shouting until Harry yanked him back. Charlie turned Jacob around and began to march him to the squad car, and Bella, alarmed, ducked beneath the dash again.

When the back door opened, a frigid gust swept through the car.

"But I wasn't speeding!" cried Jacob. "Come on, Charlie!"

"That's Chief Swan to you," said her father, and he stuffed Jacob into the backseat.

_What the hell was going on here?_ Bella peeked over the dashboard and watched her father stride back to the Suburban. Harry and Seth were now standing in the road, and Billy was leaning from the window. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but by the waving of their arms, she guessed that the two men seemed irritated with Charlie. And Seth was utterly distraught. He fell to his knees in the snow and howled up at the sky.

"Fuck!" shouted Jacob, and he kicked the seat.

Bella ducked her head again at his exclamation. She didn't think he had seen her. She waited and waited for Charlie to come back, and when he didn't she risked a peek into the backseat.

Jacob looked miserable. He could hardly fit in the cage, as Charlie called it, which was separated from the rest of the car by steel grillwork that ran across the top of the front seat. His knees stuck up high and his tall frame was wedged awkwardly against the backrest. With his arms twisted behind him in the cuffs, he sat with his head thrown back, biting his lip, the tendons in his neck strained. It looked like he was trying not to cry, for his eyes were squeezed shut and his face was red.

Another peek over the dashboard showed her father gesturing to the others. He made one hand zoom through the air while the other made the shape of something exploding, his fingers splayed quickly apart: _Ka-boom!_ he seemed to be saying. It looked irreverently reminiscent of the cruiser bursting from its camouflage. And then Harry waved his own arms like he was sawing wood, and pretended to wipe his brow. The two men leaned on each other, their shoulders shaking.

Her mouth hung open as she realized they were laughing.

"Jacob!" she hissed.

Only sniffling sounds came from the backseat.

"Jake!" she said again, louder.

There was a pause, and then, "Bella?" He scooted forward as much as he could and peered through the grille. "Why are you down there?"

She looked up at him, and her heart melted. "Oh, Jake," she said. "Don't cry."

He turned his head to wipe his nose on his shoulder. "Don't cry?" he scoffed. "Your dad fucking arrested me! On my birthday!"

"No, no!" she insisted. "Look at those guys. I think they planned this." She described Charlie pulling pine branches out of the woods and draping them over the cruiser, branches that she now suspected had been put there by Harry Clearwater. This whole thing was just as over-the-top, she realized, as that huge fire her dad had set on the beach with Harry when they were kids.

Jake and Bella looked out toward the men, and sure enough, Billy was giving Charlie a high five.

"My dad is in on this?" cried Jacob. "This is not funny!"

"Looks like they forgot to clue Seth in," said Bella.

Little Seth was rolling in the road now, pounding his fists on the pavement.

"This is the worst birthday ever," groaned Jake.

Bella climbed onto the front seat then, no longer caring for Charlie's wishes. She picked up her cake box and pulled off the lid. "Look," she said. "Look what I made you." She held it up so that he could see the writing on the cake.

"Aw, Bella," he sighed, pressing his forehead to the grille. "You're so—I—" His throat worked, his Adam's apple moving up and down as he swallowed more tears. "Thank you."

She curled her fingers through the bars, wishing she could wipe away the drop that rolled down his cheek. "Don't cry," she whispered. "Look, it's chocolate, and you can stick your finger in the frosting and taste it; I won't even mind if you mess it up."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. He flopped back against the seat again, growling, "I can't taste it; I'm fucking handcuffed here!"

She glanced back at the men in the road. They were still slapping each other on the back, so she swiped her own finger across the cake and stuck it through the grille. "Here," she said.

Jacob turned his head to the window.

"Are you pouting?"

"No."

"Your lip is sticking out."

"Is not."

"Come on, Jake. I'm so sorry. I can't believe he's doing this either. Please try the cake; you'll like it."

"This really blows, you know?"

"I know, I know." She wiggled her frosting-covered finger at him. "It's really gooo-ooood," she sang.

"Well...okay." Jacob stuck out his lower jaw, puffing his long hair out of his eyes, and then he did his best to toss the heavy strands over his shoulder. Shifting his thighs on the seat, he leaned forward, stretching his neck toward her, and took her finger into his mouth.

_Heat. _

Her gasp was involuntary; something flared in the pit of her stomach, and muscles she hadn't known she had clenched suddenly with a delicious tension. His black eyes shot to hers and held her still. Then his teeth bit down, ever so gently, and he swirled his tongue over her fingertip. His lips pressed against her. He moaned low, deep in his throat. The rumble of his breath warmed her skin, and when he released her finger, she left it there, sliding down his bottom lip to rest on his chin. She could hardly breathe. The question in his eyes burned as hot as the glow in her body.

Then Charlie opened the door and flopped into his seat.

"Oh, Bella," he sighed. "I see you're aiding and abetting the criminal."

Bella spun around, blushing furiously, and buckled up her seat belt. "Hardy, har, har, Dad," she said. "Joke's over now."

Jacob sat back, too. "And it wasn't very funny."

Charlie turned the key in the ignition and smirked at them. "Ah, you kids," he said. "The joke is only beginning!" Then he spun the car around and headed for La Push.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: A musical Motown request: STOP! In the naaaaaaame of loooooove! And review this chapter for meeeeeee! Think it oh-oh-ver... Thank you! I love my readers! Thanks for your many kind and helpful reviews. <em>

_Tell me which parts you thought were funny. This really helps me in my efforts to be a humor writer. Did you have any favorite lines? And what do you think Paul is up to? What could Charlie mean when he says the joke is just beginning? I'd love to hear your ideas so I know if my foreshadowing is working. And all shall be revealed in the next chapter, Jacob's birthday party._


	16. Chapter 16 Pandora's Box

**Chapter Sixteen**

**"Pandora's Box"**

Despite the handcuffs, Jacob settled into the backseat with a satisfied sigh as the cruiser sped toward La Push. Evening had fallen and stars were coming out overhead. The car's red and blue lights still flashed over the snow.

"Just you wait," said Charlie, glancing at Jacob in the rearview mirror. "I've got more plans for you."

"Bring it on, Chief," he replied. "This birthday just got a whole lot better."

In the front seat, Bella turned to the window to hide her bright red face. What had happened back there? Her finger... Jake's mouth... His tongue... _Oh, my GAWD, that was not what I meant to happen._ And the worst part was that Jake _knew_. She was pretty sure he _knew_ what he had done to her. The heat was still pooled in her stomach, and she crossed her legs, squirming uncomfortably. It was going to be even harder to ignore his crush, now that she had accidentally encouraged him. In the mirror, she saw a triumphant grin on Jacob's face. Then he caught her eye in the reflection, and she blushed hotter, looking away.

_Think of Edward, _she reminded herself. _And don't wreck the friendship. You need him._

Lights shone in the little cluster of houses that was the seaside village of La Push. As Charlie approached town, he flicked on the siren. Bella hid her face in her hands as it wailed. "Come on, Dad," she mumbled through her fingers. "I think we've embarrassed him enough."

"Are you kidding?" said her father. "You're kidding, right?" He switched the power to the bullhorn mounted on the roof and turned down one of the narrow streets. First a crackly static skipped from the speaker, then a high whine of feedback. Charlie cleared his throat and depressed the receiver. "Citizens of La Push!" he blared. And then he proceeded to invite everyone in town to Billy's house.

As if they had been expecting this, people opened the doors of their houses, light shining out over the snow. Already bundled up in hats and coats, dozens of men and women, teens and little kids, came pouring out into the street. They surrounded the squad car, thumping on the roof and the windows, pressing their hands to the glass to wave at Jacob and wish him a happy birthday.

"Do you feel the love, Jake?" asked Charlie with a grin.

"Oh, I feel it," he said. "Feels soooooo good."

Bella had a bad feeling that he wasn't talking about his neighbors.

_Whoop! Whoop! _ went the siren, and the cruiser rolled through every street, the crowd following. "Would you like to say a few words, Bells?" asked Charlie, offering her the microphone.

She took the receiver and frowned into it. "On behalf of my entire family and the Black family, I'd like to apologize for this disturbance."

Charlie snatched it back. "What she meant to say, everyone, is that we'll be serving chocolate cake."

Bella slumped in her seat, tugging on the strings of her red hat until she had pulled it down over her eyes. After a while, she began to suspect that Charlie was backtracking over territory that he'd already covered. "Ugh, are we done yet?" she groaned. "How do you even think of this stuff?"

"Well..." drawled Charlie, with a glance into the backseat, "a few weeks ago I got a couple of phone calls from two very sweet young ladies, and they asked if I would please, pretty please, give their baby brother a parade. How could I say no?"

"N, O," grumbled Bella. "No. It's pretty easy to say, really."

"My sisters planned this?"

"Right down to the spot where I should hide the cruiser and the decoy pizza dinner with your dad."

"Awesome," he replied. "I don't know whether I should strangle them or thank them."

Charlie turned into the driveway of Billy's house and pulled up next to the garage. "You better make up your mind pretty quick," he said.

Jacob's face brightened with hope as Charlie helped him out of the backseat and unshackled his hands. "Rachel?" he asked. "Is she here?" He looked around expectantly, but then the crowd streamed up the driveway and surrounded him with handshakes and hugs, thumps on the back. He fought to break free of the throng. "Rachel?" he called.

Bella climbed out of the cruiser just in time to see the door of Billy's house fly open and _two _dark haired girls come running out. They tackled Jacob and fell down laughing into the snow. He kissed their faces and hugged them tight, exclaiming with joy. "Becky!" he cried. The three of them tumbled over each other, stuffing snow down the backs of each other's jackets and shrieking.

Bella hung back. She wasn't used to this kind of knock-down, roll-around physical affection. Charlie wasn't a big hugger, and Renee was too absent-minded to notice her, half the time. She'd only ever been physical with Edward, and even that had been strictly limited—for her safety, of course. Seeing Jacob pounce on his sisters startled her; she almost hollered at them to be careful. But clearly Jake was in his element. He looked happier than she had ever seen him, and that was saying something. Billy came rolling down the ramp of his house and over some sheets of plywood that had been set down across the driveway for him. He looked just as happy as Jake to have them all together again.

Rachel, she knew, was a sophomore at the University of Washington, so Bella figured she must have driven down for the weekend. But Rebecca had gotten married two years ago and lived in Hawaii with her surfer husband. Neither she nor Billy could ever seem to afford to fly her home for a visit. But now she whispered in Jake's ear, and he looked up at Charlie with shining eyes. Charlie nodded, one corner of his lips twitching with a quick half-smile.

Bella turned to her father in surprise. As if he knew what she was going to say, he turned away. "Work to do," he said, opening the trunk and loading her arms with three of the cake boxes. He hefted another three and started toward the garage as Bella slogged after him through the snow.

"Cha—" she huffed. "Charlie. Dad. You bought the ticket?"

He pushed open the door with his shoulder. "A lot of people chipped in." But she could tell by his pink cheeks that he had probably chipped in the most. He dropped his boxes on a table next to Sue Clearwater and was trying to back out the door again when Sue caught him in a hug. "Thank you, Charlie," she said. "Thank you." And then Billy was pressing his hand in gratitude, and Harry thumping him on the back, and Rebecca herself came in and reached up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"It was nothing," he said. "Glad to do it." As Charlie tied to squirm away, Bella could see where she got her own discomfort with praise or thanks. He had almost escaped when Jacob burst in after his sister and actually lifted her father's feet off the ground in a monstrous hug.

"Christ, Billy, what are you feeding this boy?" cried Charlie, and Jake laughed as he set him down.

"I eat my Wheaties," he said. "And an insane amount of salmon. I'm six, four now." Then he grinned at Bella, who suddenly became interested in her boots. There was no way she could look him in the face after what had happened in the car. _Who knows what's going on in his head now? And how can I set him straight? _

"Yes, yes, you big show-off," sighed Billy. "And you've just proved you can bench press a policeman. Now get outside, boy, and press the flesh. There's a lot of people here for you tonight, and you've got a job to do."

Before he left, Jake flashed another smile at Bella, but she quickly looked away. It was going to be hard to avoid him all night. When the door shut behind him, she exhaled with relief.

"Oh, come on, Billy," said Sue. "Don't make his birthday into a job."

"He likes it," said Billy. "He's good at it. And when I'm gone, the tribe needs to look to him." He rolled out the door, calling over his shoulder, "You know I help him as much as he helps me."

Harry pulled Seth against him in a one-armed hug. "And there's much worse jobs that he could have," he said quietly to Sue. Bella wondered why his face had gone so dark, his eyes haunted, as he squeezed his gangly son to his side.

As her father and the Clearwaters arranged the cakes on the dessert table, Bella marveled at how the garage had been transformed. The Rabbit had been pushed outside, and the bikes, thank goodness, were still stowed in Quil's grandfather's shed. The floor had been swept clean and laid with braided rugs in a patchwork of cheery reds and blues. Twinkling lights hung from the rafters, and the space heater glowed warmly at the far end of the building. Along the back wall, Jacob's workbench had become a buffet table, overflowing with hot chocolate and peppermint sticks, coffee, and homemade cookies and sweetbreads. She could smell cinnamon and the freshly cut pine garlands hanging in loops along the walls. Someone had brought another long table, and she saw Quil directing people to set their contributions there. She couldn't help but notice his air of proprietorship, the way he settled the dishes carefully, and the way each guest looked to him for guidance.

"Did you... Did you do all this, Quil?" she asked, gazing up at the lights.

"Sue and Leah helped, too. We had to set it up fast while Charlie delayed Jake on the road."

Bella was impressed. "Wow. I didn't know you could be so..."

"Organized? Caring? Amazing?" He huffed on his fingernails and pretended to polish them on his shirt. "Yeah, that's me. As his best friend, I'm practically the M.C. tonight. After Billy. And Rachel and Rebecca."

Mrs. Clearwater shot him an amused look as she twisted a pile of paper napkins into a clever spiral on the cake table.

"And Sue," Quil added. "But you don't have to look so shocked."

"I just never thought—"

"Maybe you don't know me that well." He bumped her shoulder to soften his words, grinning that wicked grin that always made her blush. "I'm more than just a sex machine, you know."

Lugging a cooler full of beer and soda, Rachel snorted at him. "Oh, please." She dropped the heavy container just inches shy of his toes. "When I left for college, you were still obsessed with Transformers. I bet you've never even kissed a girl yet."

If Quil was flustered, he didn't show it. "You've been gone a while," he replied. He leaned against the buffet table, coolly looking her up and down. "I'd say I've kissed plenty of girls."

Eager to help, Seth added, "He's seen their butts, too."

Apparently, Seth had adopted Quil's "Act like you've seen a hundred butts" motto. Bella cringed to think that just two days ago, both of those boys had seen _her _butt after she'd wiped out on the bike.

"Hah!" said Rachel. "That makes you a cheeky bum looker, then." She turned around and wiggled her bottom at him, saying in her best Mike Myers-as-Simon voice, "Are you looking at my bum? Are you?"

"Nothing I haven't seen before, Rach," said Quil, slapping her backside as he headed for the door.

Seth tried to cop a feel as well, but Rachel dodged him. "You cheeky bum grabbers!" To Bella, she said, "Boys," with a roll of her eyes. "So infantile." Then she jerked her chin toward the door. "Come on. Time for the speech."

"The speech?"

Bella followed her out into the yard. There must have been a couple hundred people milling around in the space between the garage and the house, and more were still walking up the driveway and spilling over into the yard. The snow was packed firm beneath many feet. She could see Jake's head above the crowd, his easy grin as he accepted the birthday congratulations. Billy was beside him, shaking hands, his own smile broad and warm—quite the opposite of the crushed, heartsick man she'd seen last night in her living room.

She still didn't know what had happened to make Billy so upset. Something to do with Embry, Jake had hinted. Tonight, though, his face gave no hint of the pain he'd shared with Charlie and Harry. Jake had said that his father wore his chiefdom like a cloak. Maybe, she thought, it wasn't a cloak to make himself look more important. Maybe it was to hide his problems, whatever they might be.

The crowd was clamoring for Jacob to say something. Night had fallen completely now, but the full moon shone silver and huge, rising above the forest that bordered the Blacks' property. In its glow, she could see Jacob's eyes flashing with excitement. He climbed onto the hood of Harry's Suburban as the crowd whooped for him.

"I love everybody here!" he shouted, much to the approval of those gathered. He spoke of his joy in being Quileute, how each person in the tribe mattered to him, was family to him. He named his teachers, his cousins, his neighbors, his aunts and uncles, his friends, the elders—it seemed like there was no one he missed as he poured the feelings of his grateful heart over the crowd. Then he shifted into Quileute, and though she couldn't understand what he said, Bella saw his love returned in all of the faces lifted to him. He truly was, as Billy had said, their prince. Bella felt suddenly shy, and strangely honored, that he valued her friendship so much. What could she possibly offer him that all of these people could not? She was a nobody with a dead heart, thudding hollowly in her chest, with nothing left to give.

But Jacob didn't think so. She was startled when everyone turned to her with applause. "My good friend," Jacob was saying. "I want to thank Bella for the cake." She hid her face in her red-mittened hands as people chuckled at her bashfulness.

"Also, I want to thank Harry for letting me drive this yacht, the S. S. Clearwater, for my driver's test today. I've got my license now, so you all better stay off the sidewalk!" His gentle self-deprecation earned more good-natured laughter.

It was absolutely masterful, Bella saw, the way he handled the audience. He bloomed under the attention of the crowd, becoming larger than his ordinary self. Kind of like Billy. Was this the same boy who had rather awkwardly asked her to have pizza with him earlier today? Clearly there was more than one side to Jake. With her, he was quieter, confiding. He gave her his secrets and worries; he trusted her. But he also had the confidence to climb onto the hood of a car and address the whole town with an open heart. He was born for this; it was easy to see.

Billy decided to say a few words, too. In a loud voice, he thanked everyone for coming. Then he turned to his son. "No matter what happens in the future, Jacob, I want you to remember this day. Take this happiness with you, even if... I... I just want you to remember that we all love you." He seemed to choke up a little.

"Geez, Dad," said Jacob. "It's a party, not a funeral." The crowd chuckled, but Billy did not.

Jake addressed the gathering again. "Lastly, I want to thank my dad. I couldn't ask for a better father. I just hope I can make him as proud of me as I am of him." He hopped down from the truck and embraced his father in his huge arms. As everyone clapped, Bella saw a flash of emotion trouble Billy's face. No one else seemed to have noticed, but she couldn't stop wondering about it. Was it guilt? Shame? Something still seemed wrong, despite the cheers and congratulations pouring toward the father and son from every direction. It made her ache for Jacob in a way she didn't understand.

Then he was coming at her. Wading through the crowd, he sidestepped the hands and hugs of others. His eyes locked onto hers. For a moment, she froze, feeling like one of those stupid jackrabbits in Arizona that always seemed to panic on the highway instead of hopping away from her mom's car. Then she spun around and dove between Rachel and Rebecca, squirming through the crowd to dash back into the garage.

Sue was still there, slicing the cake and laying out pieces on little paper plates. _Hide me!_ Bella wanted to beg. Instead, she scooted behind the table and began to help with the cake cutting.

As the people drifted into the garage for refreshments, Bella was glad to have a job to do, something to occupy her hands. Still, it was almost excruciating for her to accept the thanks of guest after guest, all praising the cake. Mrs. Weber had told her that she should be proud. "Baking for the whole tribe!" she had said. "What an honor!" But Bella didn't know what it felt like to be proud. She only knew that she'd never had so much attention in her life, never heard so many compliments, and she could only duck her head and try to nod her acknowledgement as the happy eaters passed her table.

Billy caught her hand as she held out a slice for him. He made her look him in the eye, and he must have understood her shyness, for he spoke very softly, only to her. "Thank you," he said. "I knew we could count on you." Then he squeezed her hand and was gone.

Sue put an arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. "What Billy didn't say was that you've given us more than just a cake here. Honey, this is almost like a potlatch, and those are _very _special occasions." A potlatch, she explained, was a gift-giving and feasting ceremony. The Northwest tribes held them to display the greatness of a chief. "You have no idea how tickled Billy is right now," Sue said.

_Holy moly. I threw a potlatch?_

The stacks and stacks of cake boxes suggested that she had.

Then Jacob stood before her, holding a tiny paper plate in his huge hands. Her spatula shook as she served him a piece of cake. He picked up a little plastic fork, but he didn't step away. When she finally forced herself to look up at him, she was glad to have the table between them.

"I just want you to know," he whispered, "that I really, really like—." Then he stopped, for her panic must have shown on her face. His eyes flickered, and he pressed his lips together, swallowing his words. "I really like this cake," he finished, and when she wouldn't look at him again, he slid back into the crowd.

Chewing her lip, Bella cursed that crazy impulse she'd had to feed him frosting in the car. How could she have known that a little lick of her finger would create such a big problem? It was as if Jake had tugged a loose thread on the sweater of her denial, and now it was all unraveling. She needed to knit it back up again before she stood naked in front of him. _Ooh, bad metaphor, Bella. Bad, bad, bad._

Maybe it was more like opening a Pandora's box of relationship problems that were going to mess up their friendship. She did not want to have to avoid him because of his crush. She could never be what he wanted, so why couldn't a simple friendship be enough for him? It was more than enough for her. The only solution was to put the lid back on that box and sit on it.

_But Pandora couldn't put the lid back on_, she remembered from reading Greek mythology in English class. _Then again_, she thought, with a determined set of her jaw, _m__aybe Pandora didn't try hard enough._

There were a lot of people here, so it shouldn't be too hard to avoid Jacob. This thought steadied her until she looked up and saw another person whom she had wanted to avoid: Joy Ateara.

"Go on and talk to your friends, sweetie," she said, coming around the table to serve cake with Sue and elbowing Bella out of the way. When Bella tried to insist that she _liked_ staying behind the scenes, Mrs. Ateara just laughed. "Don't be silly! The twins want to catch up with you."

Rachel and Rebecca waved to her from the doorway.

"Go on now," said Mrs. Ateara. "I know how you like to, um, _socialize_."

_Oh, brother._ "Look," began Bella, "about the other day. I wasn't—"

"Oh, don't worry, honey. Quil explained everything. I understand that it's hard to make up your mind. I still say Seth is a little too young for you—" here, Sue cast a curious glance her way "—and Quil, God love him, is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean. Sure, I'm his mom and all, but if I were you—"

"Really," Bella interrupted, "I'm not dating anyone."

"—I'd pick Jacob. I mean, what's not to like? He's smart, he's responsible, and let's face it, the kid is F, I, N, E, _fine_. You can't go wrong with..."

Bella turned and ran.

Her wide eyes, red face, and the trajectory of her escape seemed nothing new to the twins. Rebecca handed her a cup of cocoa. "Did you get the sex ed lecture?" she asked. "Or did she offer to be your match-maker?" finished Rachel.

She shuddered. "A little of both."

"Well, that means she likes you."

Bella turned around in surprise, and Quil's mom gave her a big smile as she made shoo-ing motions toward the door. "Really?" she asked the girls.

"Absolutely," confirmed Rachel. She linked arms with Bella and they headed outside. "When I was in high school, she kept suggesting that I date Paul Lahote. As if I'd want to hook up with that delinquent. He's four years younger than me and always getting in trouble for fighting. "

"So wrong for you," said Rebecca.

"And did I mention ugly?" continued Rachel. "I don't know if he grew out of it, but I'm telling you, as a freshman, that kid was a total dog."

"Yuck." It was easy for Bella to sympathize. That Paul guy sure was weird. And by the way he'd been sniffing around her house, it was obvious to her that he had some stalker tendencies. Sure, Edward had behaved similarly, but Edward wasn't a stalker, she rationalized, because she loved him. _ That made it all okay, right? _

The twins kept Bella too busy to ponder the morality of Edward's conduct. As they pushed through the crowd, Rachel and Rebecca stopped to exchange many hugs and hellos along the way. Like Jacob, it seemed that they knew everyone in town. Bella hung back shyly, but more often than not she was dragged forward and presented to each guest as their dear old friend. She was surprised at how many people remembered her from when she was a little girl and would visit La Push with her father. When she thought about it, she realized that Rachel and Rebecca really were dear old friends, perhaps the oldest friends she had. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and trotted along after them, finally able to relax and enjoy the night.

Moonlight reflecting off the snow pushed the darkness back into the trees, and the glow of a dozen campfires brightened the clearing beside the Blacks' house. She could see that the many weeks' labor of Jacob's woodchopping had been put to good use. In each circle of firelight, people sat talking and eating the birthday cake, gathered on logs and incongruously summer-like lawn chairs. Millions of stars glittered overhead, and Bella could see the sparkling swath of the Milky Way. She had never seen it before, never having been so far from the city lights that blocked it out, and she stopped walking to gaze up at it. Her breath made white puffs in the air.

Rachel stopped beside her. "Pretty, isn't it? I miss this."

Bella could see how a person would miss this kind of beauty, this kind of place. Rachel belonged here. She'd grown up here, and La Push was a part of her. Yet she treated Bella as if she belonged here, too.

Maybe she did.

That was a surprising revelation, but the more she thought about it, the more it seemed true. Renee had moved around a lot, and Bella had grown up in different cities, attended different schools. The only constants had been Charlie, and this place. Sure, she hadn't been here very often, but she always came back. If any place had a claim on her, this would be it. It was not a bad feeling. Even if it was the place where her heart had been broken, it was still the place where she had once been in love. Looking up at the stars, she thought that maybe, this time, she could stay awhile. This could be home.

Rebecca interrupted her reverie with, "Ooh, there's Leah! Let's go sit with her."

_Ugh_, thought Bella. _Let's not._ Leah Clearwater was kind of scary. She sat apart from other guests at one of the campfires, idly tossing handfuls of snow into the flames to watch the sizzling effect, and scowling at everyone who walked past. A pair of crutches were propped against the log where she slouched. When Rachel and Rebecca approached, she scowled a little less, but at the sight of Bella, her frown returned. Nevertheless, she was not entirely without manners. She frightened a couple of little kids into giving up their seats for the twins, and she kicked a ratty old lawn chair in Bella's direction. It hit her in the shins.

Rubbing at the bruise forming below her knee, Bella dragged her chair to other side of the fire. She hoped Leah would be too busy catching up with the twins to pay much attention to her.

"We heard about Sam," said Rachel.

Leah leaned into their hugs, holding on tightly. "That stupid fucker," she said into Rebecca's shoulder.

When Bella had seen Leah a week ago, she had been hanging on the phone at Billy's house, talking to someone while the rest of her family sang along with Charlie's break-up songs on the guitar. Bella had admired her sleek, tall figure, her beautiful black hair, and her confidence. She had assumed that whoever Leah was talking to must surely have adored her. But now, knowing about Sam, she saw that memory differently. She remembered how tense Leah had seemed and the angry tone of her words. Had she been talking to Sam? Or her two-timing cousin?

Tonight, Leah sat sour and silent, listening to Rachel's jokes about the cafeteria food at U-Dub, but not once cracking a smile. Her beautiful hair was draped over her shoulder in a messy braid, as if she hadn't cared at all about looking nice for the party. And one of her feet was encased in a heavy cast, with a bracing boot strapped around her calf. Even when Rebecca talked about snorkeling with sea turtles, she remained expressionless and withdrawn.

She shook her head sadly when the twins urged her to tell them about the break-up. But they took her hand and put their arms around her, and after a while, she began to talk.

Bella remembered Jacob telling her what had happened to Leah. She stared into the fire, trying not to hear, but it was just as bad as he had said. Years of love, promises. Sam had welcomed her into his family. Leah had looked up to him, amazed that such a wonderful guy wanted her. She had planned her life around him. And then one day, he had taken her into the woods.

_Oh no,_ thought Bella. _Not the woods..._

"He's all, 'Let's take a walk,' and then—no warning—he says he's leaving me." Leah rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. "I thought—I thought we—" she gulped. "Never mind what I thought."

Bella's heart began to pound. She knew what Leah had thought. _Forever..._ If she could have gotten up and run away, she would have done it, but she could only clutch her middle and try to keep breathing as the aching, empty place inside of her began to throb in painful recognition.

Leah went on. She had trusted him. She had never once thought that something was wrong between them. It was as if he had changed overnight. "He kept giving me some shit about love at first sight, and I was like, 'What about the past three years?' And then he says he's not even going back to college because he wants to stay on the rez, and be with _her."_ Leah hadn't just lost Sam. She'd also lost her cousin and best friend, both in the same day.

_Alice... _Bella's hands started to shake; she tried to set down her cup of cocoa, but it spilled. She watched the dark liquid spread, and in the dim light, it looked like blood over the snow.

She wished she could block out the sound of Leah's voice. Here was the echo of her own agony. Maybe all along, she had known there were worse things to fear from Leah than rudeness. Hearing her was like looking into a black mirror, seeing herself betrayed and rejected again, lost in the forest when the night things chattered around her and the earth cut her feet, came to swallow her up.

"And then he left me," Leah said. "He just left me there, in the woods. I tried to follow him, but he was so fast, I couldn't even see where he had gone."

Bella closed her eyes. She felt Edward's cold kiss on her forehead.

"Oh, my God," said Rachel. "What did you do?"

Leah brandished her crutches. "What does it look like I did? I fucking broke my foot kicking out the headlights on his truck. Should have used a crow bar."

The twins assured Leah that this was appropriate vengeance, and Bella was able to collect herself. She could breathe again. Leah's story was frighteningly familiar, but she told herself that she was not like Leah. And the important difference was that she still loved Edward, and he must have had a good reason for what he had done. _Surely he had a good reason. Right? _Leah was angry; that was obvious. As for herself—how could she be angry at Edward when she still loved him? It didn't make sense.

_I am not angry,_ she told herself. But her hands were still shaking.

Leah seemed eager to change the subject. "What's up with you and Jake?" she called across the fire.

The image of a jackrabbit in front of her mom's car appeared to her again. "Uh, nothing?" she said. _Why did that sound like a question?_

"That's not what Seth says."

Bella busied herself with picking up her cup; there was still a bit of cocoa left, so she stuck her nose in the cup and stared at them over its rim.

"He's so happy that you're giving him a chance," said Rachel. "Every time I call home, it's Bella this and Bella that."

"We're not dating."

"You're kind of his dream girl," added Rebecca. "He's had a thing for you since he was six."

"No, five," said Rachel.

Bella did not want to know this. Her face burned, and she kept her eyes on the ground.

The twins kept on gushing to one another, saying, "Wouldn't they be sweet together?" and "So cute!" and other effusive exclamations until she wished she could sink into the snow.

"Look at him now," said Rebecca. "He can't stop staring at her."

A sideways glance showed Jacob at a neighboring campfire with Quil, Seth, and a bunch of other teens that she assumed were his classmates. Half a dozen girls were crowding to sit next to him, but his eyes kept straying to Bella. The glow of the fire played upon the bones of his face, highlighting the firm line of his jaw and the inky gleam of his black hair. When he caught her looking, he seemed to flush, but he didn't drop his gaze. _Oh, God, could he hear what they were saying?_ She turned away quickly.

"I don't think of him that way," she mumbled, and when they looked confused, she added, "I don't think of anyone that way. I just... I can't."

They stared at her as if she was out of her mind. "Why not?" demanded Rachel.

Her mouth opened, but she had no words. How could she explain about Edward? How could they understand that letting a friend or two into the wreck of her heart was almost more than she could handle?

"You don't like him?" asked Rebecca, as if that were impossible.

And Leah added, with the first smile Bella had seen from her all evening, "Seth says you showed him your underpants."

She decided that Leah's smile was actually more of a devilish smirk. The twins turned to her with their eyes practically bulging out of their heads, and she could only stare back, terrified.

If Bella's life had been a fairy tale, a handsome prince would have galloped up on a big white horse to save her. As it was, her hero appeared in the form of a pudgy teenage boy who hurtled a big white snowball into the side of Rachel's head.

"Dammit, Quil!" she spluttered.

He was already rolling another one.

"You little piss-ant!" Rachel lobbed a snowball of her own at him, but he dodged it.

"Billy says to round everybody up for gift giving." He winked at Bella. Then he pelted Rachel with another one, and she let loose with a string of words that made Leah smirk again and whack her on the back. Rebecca just laughed and tossed a handful of snow at him.

"I've been sent to win you all over with my charms and escort you to the house."

"This is charming?" cried Rachel, pointing to her snow-flattened hair. "This?"

"Or I could just seduce you now and get it over with."

"Hah! The Kiss-less Wonder is here to sweep us off our feet."

It seemed like Rachel knew how to hit Quil where it would hurt. "I've kissed plenty of girls," he retorted, but Bella could see he was rattled, and Rachel kept needling him.

"You've kissed your pillow," she sneered.

"Maybe you wish I would kiss _you!"_

"I'd like to see you try it!"

Quil had an excellent sense of self-preservation. Instead of trying to plant one on Rachel, he grabbed Rebecca's arm and jerked her to her feet. She barely had time to say "Eep!" before he bent her backward over his thigh and kissed her thoroughly. Then he dropped her in the snow.

"Ack!" she cried, wiping at her mouth. "I'm a married woman!" But as she scrambled to her feet and towed Leah and her sister away from him, Bella saw her fighting a smile.

"Thanks," she said when they had gone.

He helped her up from her chair. "You were dying over here. I had to do something."

"Well, you're extremely distracting. Good job." As they walked toward the house, she asked, "How many girls have you kissed, anyway?"

He looked down at his boots. "One," he muttered.

Before she could stop herself, she whispered, "Make it two," and touched her lips to his cheek.

* * *

><p>Even though only a few people had brought gifts, the house was packed. Billy made Jacob sit down at the head of the table as everyone crowded into the dining room. Though the twins tried to encourage Leah to sit with them, she hung back, frowning in the doorway. When she thought no one was looking, her eyes became dull and vacant, hopeless. Bella knew that look, and it scared her.<p>

Seeking a place to stand where she wouldn't be squished, and as far from Leah as possible, Bella sidled up next to her father. The fire in the woodstove glowed hot, and with all of the people jostling for space, the room quickly became stuffy. She pulled off her red coat and draped it over a chair, and when she turned around, Jacob's eyes were definitely not on her face. She felt herself flush under his surprised stare, and she prayed that no one else could hear Seth as he whispered, "A hundred butts, dude. Just act like you've seen a hundred boobs—er, butts,"

_Darn Angela for making me buy this tight sweater!_ In the store's dressing room, she had liked the way she looked. Now she wasn't so sure. She felt all squirmy and uncomfortable. Glancing around the room, she saw that no one else seemed scandalized by the way the white knit fabric clung to her body, showing the shape of her waist and hips, her small breasts. If even her newly-attentive father didn't think it was too tight, then it wasn't, right? So why did Jake have to look at her like that? She tugged the cuffs of her sleeves over her hands and hunched her shoulders, trying to hide her figure.

Charlie tossed his present onto the scratched, brown table with the feigned nonchalance of a poker player, and then Harry threw down a white envelope with a look that said, "I see your crappy paper-bag-wrapped gift, and I raise you this much better gift." Billy slapped down another envelope as if it held a pair of Aces, and soon everyone had placed their offerings on the table. Before the unwrapping could begin, though, the twins brought their brother a piece of Bella's cake with a little candle fizzling on the top if it, and everybody sang "happy birthday." When he blew out the candle, he looked pleadingly at Bella, and it didn't take much imagination for her to guess what he'd wished for. The twins huddled together, pointing from her to their brother and whispering excitedly. Biting her lip, Bella looked at her boots.

Fortunately, the guests urged Jacob to get started on his gifts. Charlie's windshield scraper met with Jake's approval, and Bella was a little jealous of how he knew right away that it was not a giant toothbrush or a misbegotten broom. Harry and Sue gave him a gift certificate to the auto parts store in Hoquiam, and Billy's envelope contained registration and insurance papers for the Rabbit.

A couple of gawky junior high kids, looking far too tall to be seventh graders, presented him with a rather worn VHS copy of _The Blues Brothers. _"Thanks, Collin. Thanks, Brady," he said. "I used to watch this with my mom. She loved the music. And in this one scene, there's like a hundred cop cars piled up—" He stopped himself with a sheepish look at Charlie. "Oops. Sorry, Chief Swan."

"It's a hundred and ten," said Charlie. "I counted at least a hundred and ten piled up under the El at the end of the movie. Great flick."

_Huh, _thought Bella. She hadn't know her father liked movies where police cars got wrecked. But after his _Dukes of Hazzard_ stunt earlier tonight, she supposed she shouldn't be too surprised.

Then Quil's grandfather came slowly forward, gripping his cane. With great solemnity, he pressed into Jacob's hands a small, wooden carving of a wolf. "Cool," said Jake, and he declared that he would put a little red ribbon around its neck and hang it on the tree next Christmas. Bella thought that was a nice thing to say, so she didn't know why Mr. Ateara went away muttering about respect.

Rachel's present was a purple sweatshirt from the University of Washington, and Rebecca gave him a box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts from Hawaii. Always generous, Jacob opened the box right away and passed them around to share. Bella had never eaten one before. _Delicious! _she thought. She hoped Jake wouldn't mind if she took two, and she was munching on her second one when Quil's mom slid a large, manilla envelope across the table. Jacob pulled out several pamphlets, illustrated with bright photos, and his eyes widened.

"I brought them from the clinic where I work," explained Mrs. Ateara. "You'll be needing to know this stuff sooner than you may think. And let me tell you, it's a lot more complicated than fitting Tab A into Slot B. So if you ever have any questions—"

"No questions!" he blurted, stuffing the pamphlets back into the envelope. "Thank you!"

"—you can always ask me. And there's more!" She indicated that he should look into the envelope again. "It's always good to be _prepared _and _safe._" Her wink was the opposite of subtle.

Jacob took another peek, turned pink, and slapped the envelope shut.

"Mom," said Quil. "Come on. You're killing him."

From the way Billy was coughing, Bella couldn't tell if he was laughing or not. Her own lecture from Joy Ateara seemed positively discreet compared to this. Seth kept asking, "What's in there?" until his mother grabbed the envelope and strode down the hall to toss it in Jake's room. "Honestly!" she groused, frowning at Mrs. Ateara.

"Uh, next?" squeaked Jacob.

Leah Clearwater tossed a little plastic box at him, hitting him in the ear.

"Thanks," he said dryly.

She gestured to her gift with the crutches as if they were extensions of her hands. Collin had to dodge them. "I know that old shit heap you're fixing up—"

"Leah!" said Sue. "Watch your language."

"Sorry, Mom. I know your _car—_" she made dismissive air quotes "—doesn't have a CD player, so I made you a mix tape."

Jake looked it over. "This is great," he said. "Zeppelin, Clapton, The Allman Brothers... WAR, some Blue Oyster Cult... Wow."

"Yeah. I think 'Low Rider' and 'Don't Fear the Reaper' are about the only songs that can get away with excessive use of the cow bell."

Jake flipped it over. "Ooh, Jethro Tull. And Steppenwolf!"

"Glad to see you can appreciate classical music," drawled Leah. She jerked a thumb at her brother. "Dipshit over here—"

"Leah! Language."

"Sorry, Mom. _Seth_ made you a tape, too."

While talking about the music, Leah had seemed more alive. But as the attention shifted to her brother, Bella saw her vibrancy fade. Harry put his arm around her and she turned her face into his chest. He passed his big hand over her hair, and above his daughter's head, he turned his sad eyes to Charlie, who nodded with understanding.

Seth's wrapping paper, complete with tattered edges, seemed to have been pulled from a spiral notebook and was sealed with far too much Scotch tape. As Jake peeled the blue-lined paper away, Seth hovered at his shoulder. Jacob squinted at the cassette tape. Then he turned it over and read the back side as well. A small crease appeared in his brow. "Hmm..." he said. "It's all—"

"Justin Timberlake! I know!"

Quil smacked him in the arm. "Seth, geez," he said. "You're never going to get a girlfriend if you go around liking Justin Timberlake. I mean, come on. _Girls_ like Justin Timberlake."

"Exactly," said Seth. "_Girls _like Justin Timberlake. And they'll want to dance with me as soon as I learn all his moves."

"Oh..." said Quil. He seemed to reconsider the matter.

"Uh, thanks for the tape, Seth." Jacob looked at it thoughtfully. "I'll give it a try."

Seth beamed at him. Then he said, "I got you something else," and he handed Jake a tiny, crumpled paper bag. "It's also for your car."

Bella wondered why Seth was blushing so badly. Jacob pulled a keychain from the bag, and hanging from the silver ring was a tiny blue plastic figure. A tiny blue figure in a white dress with a little white cap, chunky white shoes, and long yellow hair. Bella began to get a bad feeling about this. She tried to get a better look, but Jacob closed his fist around the keychain. He was trying to stifle a smile, and trying even harder to prevent her from seeing what was in his hand.

"I figured you'd like it," said Seth, and he looked—it took Bella a moment to interpret his expression, for she had never seen little Seth look that way—he looked positively _naughty. _Then she caught another glimpse as Jake slipped the keychain into his pocket, and she saw that it was—

_No, it couldn't be._

Oh, yes. It was.

Her eyes shot to Seth's and he looked away. _That little devil!_ She was going to kill him, as soon as she could get him alone. Then Quil tossed his gift to Jake with a similar smirk, and her heart thudded with alarm as he unrolled a large poster. _Please no, please no..._

Jacob rolled it up again quickly. But it was too late. It appeared that Quil and Seth had gone shopping together.

Bella's face burned, and she glared at Quil. "I thought we were friends," she hissed.

"Bro's before ho's," he said with a shrug.

"I can't believe I gave you a kiss!"

Jacob's head snapped up, and Quil pointed to his cheek. "Anyway," he said, "I took the liberty of laminating that for you, so you can hang it wherever you want. In your room. In the shower."

Jacob frowned, and his face began to darken with a blush.

"It's got a heavy duty coating to take whatever you throw at it."

He blushed hotter.

"Wipes clean."

"That better not be porn," growled Billy.

"It's not," mumbled his son.

"Well, then, what the hell is it?" demanded Charlie, noting that both Jake and Bella had turned a similar shade of red.

Most unwillingly, Jacob unrolled the poster and held it up for all to see. It was exactly as she had feared. She cursed the day those boys had seen her underpants, wishing that she could sink into the floor. And rather than staring at the poster, everyone seemed to be staring at _her_, as if she were responsible for this!

"Jake just _loves_ the Smurfs," Quil explained glibly. "Especially Smurfette."

"Shut up, Quil," muttered Jacob.

"I think his next favorite must be _Handy_ Smurf."

"Shut up, Quil," he said, a little louder.

"Or maybe—"

"Here!" shouted Bella before Quil could say anything else. She practically threw her gift at Jacob. The adults were still looking suspiciously from her to Quil to Seth, but nobody seemed to know what was going on—except perhaps Leah, who perked up again, much like a pirhana that smells blood. She looked like she would have a few questions for Bella later, the kind of questions that Bella did not want to answer. She wondered how she was going to get out of Billy's dining room alive.

Tearing the paper loudly and remarking on the bright orange color of the ribbon, Jacob seemed to be trying to deflect attention from Bella. _Thank you,_ she mouthed. He opened the box from the custom-printed T-shirt shop and stared into it for a long moment. Then he burst into laughter and held up the black shirt she had gotten him.

"This is the best shirt in the world!" He turned it around, and printed across the chest in tiny white letters were three words: _Shut up, Quil._

It was all over after that. Charlie slapped her on the back, the goofy seventh grade boys were howling in Quil's face, saying, "Burned! Burned!" and even Billy raised his can of Rainier in a silent toast. Joy Ateara laughed the hardest, and when she had wiped a tear out of her eye, she said, "Where can I get one of those?"

"Aw, Mom!"

She ruffled up his hair. "Oh, come on, Quilly. It's funny."

He squirmed away, smoothing his curls and grumbling, "Don't call me Quilly."

"I got you another one, too," said Bella, with a sour look at a certain couple of boys who, she decided, were most definitely un-Smurfy.

Jacob opened the second box and said, "Okay, I take it back. _This_ is the best shirt in the world." And he held up another T-shirt that read, _Don't make me kick your ass._

"Fuckin' A," said Leah, and her mother grabbed her arm and marched her out of the house.

The party started to break up. First the adults drifted outside, and then the twins headed out, too, after ribbing Jacob about his very educational gift from Mrs. Ateara. Collin and Brady opened the refrigerator and loaded their arms with sandwiches, and Quil began pestering Jacob to let him wear the second of his new T-shirts.

"Come on, man," he said. "Best friends share. Everything." He was tugging on the shirt, but winking at Bella.

"Not _everything_," Jacob snarled.

"Fine then," said Quil. He picked up a fork and dug into the slice of cake that still had the birthday candle sticking out of it. "Ohhhh..." he moaned. "Mmmmmm... This frosting is amazing. Did you make this, Bella?"

"I'm not giving you my shirt," said Jacob.

"This is the best frosting I ever tasted." He swiped his finger across the cake and stuck it in his mouth, groaning, "Mmmmmm... So goooooood."

Bella blanched. _Oh my God. What had Jacob said to him?_

When Quil began to paint his face with frosting in the most lecherous abuse of baked goods she had ever seen, she screeched, "Just give him the shirt, Jake!" Then she spun around and raced down the hall to the bathroom. She locked the door and leaned against the wall, panting.

Immediately she regretted her decision. Now she was stuck in the bathroom.

From the dining room came the sounds of a chair falling over and the table being shoved across the floor. Seth and the seventh graders were whooping, and clearly, somebody was paying for his big, fat mouth. She heard the door open and close as the brawl rolled out into the snow.

Well, now she would have to spend the rest of her life in this bathroom. There was no way she could ever look those boys in the face again. And what had Jacob _said _to Quil? If he had talked about the frosting, then it must have meant something to him, which was ridiculous, because it didn't mean anything. It was just a mistake, or an emotional blip that wouldn't have even happened if her father hadn't scared the crap out of Jacob with that car chase, and if she hadn't felt sorry for him sitting in the back of the cruiser, handcuffed and crying. Oh, what had she been _thinking?_ Clearly, she hadn't. And now she was stuck in this bathroom for the rest of her life.

She paced in the tiny room, fisting her hands in her hair. Maybe she could run out of the house really fast. She could find her father and ask him to take her home. And maybe after a few days, she could see Jacob again, and when he asked about that moment in the car, she would deny that anything had happened. Which would be easy. _Because nothing had happened._ She told herself that a few more times until it began to seem true.

The house was still. She cracked open the door a tiny bit and was about to dash out when the sound of Billy's voice made her pause. He seemed right outside the door. She froze, and after a moment she realized that he wasn't talking to her or anyone else in the house. He was using the phone extension in his bedroom, talking in the same clipped, curt tone that Charlie used when speaking to one of his deputies.

"Any activity tonight?" he asked, in a hard voice that sounded nothing like the way he spoke to his son. "You're running two? Good."

She suspected that she shouldn't be listening to this, but if she walked out into the hall now, he would know that she must have heard something. She held still and hoped he wouldn't notice the light gleaming under the bathroom door.

"I want you to bring him by," Billy said. "I know he doesn't want to see me. Bring him for Jake." After a pause, he said, "Yes, I think he can handle the crowd. He's already handled too much shit in his life."

Something was definitely wrong, she thought. Something that concerned Jake. And this sounded like one of those problems Billy kept hidden, veiled beneath the cloak of his chiefdom.

"One more thing. Keep Paul on the perimeter. I don't want that crazy fucker anywhere near this place. And that's an Order, God damn it. My daughters are here." He smacked the phone down into its cradle with a tinny echo of the bell mechanism, and Bella, startled, spun around and turned on the water at the sink. She washed her hands very thoroughly, with a good deal of splashing, and prayed that if Billy noticed her as he rolled past the door, he would think that the sound of the water had covered his conversation.

After a long while, she dried her hands on the faded green towel that hung on its hook beside the sink. She heard the front door open again as Billy left. Then she slipped back down the hall to fetch her coat, thankful that everyone had gone outside. When she returned to the dining room, however, she saw that she was wrong.

Jacob was waiting for her. He leaned against the table, wearing the "Shut up, Quil" T-shirt and toying with her orange ribbon in his big hands. He pulled the curls through his fingers and watched them spring back.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For telling Quil. I shouldn't have told anyone. I mean, what happened in the car—"

"Nothing happened."

"It mattered to me. I—"

"Nothing happened," she said again, but her voice shook. She began to edge toward her red coat, still draped over a chair, keeping the table between them. When he straightened up and put the ribbon aside, her pulse skittered.

"Bells," he said. "You've got to know. For so long—"

"We don't need to talk about this." She stuffed her arms into the sleeves and tried to pull on her mittens, but her hands were shaking. _Why, why did he want to change things? Wasn't their friendship enough? _ It was more than enough for her, and now he was about to destroy it. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear the blood roaring in her ears. But even as she crept toward the door, she hated the way something seemed to die in his eyes as he watched her retreat.

At last she got the mittens on. She pulled her red hat low over her forehead, keeping her face turned away from him, but she still heard the breath catch in his throat. She would not let him ruin this. Not over something entirely preventable, like talking about his crush.

"What's wrong?" he said. "Let me fix it."

"Nothing's wrong. Just—please. Please don't do this." _Please let this not be the moment._ _The moment when everything ends._

She flinched when he put his hand on her shoulder. He was turning her around, running his hands down her arms, and she could only shake her head and swallow hard against the knot forming in her throat. "Look at me," he begged, and when she lifted her eyes, she felt everything come apart.

He didn't look like he had a crush on her. He looked like... He looked like he... Oh, God, she couldn't even say it to herself; it was so frightening. The dead place that Edward had left in her chest throbbed like a fresh wound, recognizing the same kind of knife that had slashed her open in the first place. Jacob's feelings—they were so strong, she saw, and it was all so clear now—they were powerful enough to _hurt her._

She backed toward the door, her mind hammering frantically as she assessed the environment, the threat in her surroundings. Adrenaline coursed through her body; she felt almost dizzy from the surge. Her thoughts spun wildly, a wheel off the track, and at the same time the room seemed to stand still: she felt the hot glow in the woodstove, saw the picture of her father and his guitar on Billy's mantle, Jacob's boots on the mat by the door, the carved wolf on the table, and the white curtains at the window, flimsy as butterfly wings, unable to hold back the night. Darkness pressed against the glass just as the black water had pressed against the ice in her dream, and she remembered the heavy flood that swept over her feet when the ice cracked, pulling her down as her hands flailed, holding on to nothing, the sky slipping through her fingers. She was drowning, right now, her lungs filling up with fear.

Jacob's eyes shimmered when he looked at her. He held out his hand. "Please," he said, and she bolted, a deer thrashing through the forest, right out the door and into the night.

And she didn't stop. She ran past the parked cars in the driveway, past the garage where light and laughter spilled out into the yard, past the campfires and the crowd and beyond the firelight to where the deep snow drifted high near the forest. There in the dark, almost to the trees, she tripped on her bootlace and fell forward, her hands sinking deep but not reaching the solidity of the earth. The snow was a cold shock on her face.

The hole in her middle throbbed so hard that she drew her knees up to her chest, feeling for a moment that she might be sick. Then the agony burst from her body and she had to hold her mittens against her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobbing.

She was losing Jacob. All along, she had known this time would come, the time when he would ask her the unanswerable question. If she said no, then he would leave her. And if she said yes, she'd be lying, and before long he would find out that she was dead inside, and then he would leave her. She had Charlie, and she had Angela, but the truth was that she needed Jacob like no one else. He was the only one who could make her forget. It was more than the motorcycles, more than a ticket to the phantom visions of what she had lost. It was his smile, the light in his eyes when he looked at her. His sure hands helping her down from her truck. The way he hugged her in the rain and twirled her around. The way he had looked to her for comfort these past weeks when he was worried about Embry, and the way he laughed at the T-shirts she got him. She couldn't bear it; she couldn't bear to be without him. And though she couldn't understand why, somehow it seemed that this was happening because of Edward.

She wept his name into the snow. "Edward, Edward, you were wrong." Her life could not be as if he had never existed. As if she had never loved him. Everything was ruined now, and her heart was worse than broken. She was so messed up that she couldn't even be in the same room with a person who looked at her the way he had. When she had remained true, why did loving Edward keep hurting so bad? Her body shook with the force of her tears, and she tasted blood in her mouth. "What have you done to me?" she cried.

He would never be able to explain. She let her body sink into the snow, let it swallow her, and she closed her eyes. If she wished hard enough, couldn't this be a year ago, when he had held her in his arms of stone? She was so cold. Couldn't she feel, just for moment, that the snow was his body, stretched beside her in her bed as they whispered together in the night? She tried so hard to believe it, but all she could think of was the white marble stone in the little cemetery in Forks where her grandmother lay buried. And the more she burrowed into the snow, searching for the memory of Edward, the more she felt like she could hardly breathe, as if the drifts closing over her were the walls of a grave.

_This is your fault, Edward._ Her body trembled with a strange new emotion, and she thought of Leah Clearwater, slumped at the campfire, tossing handfuls of snow into the blaze with a bitter frown. Then she imagined herself kicking out the headlights on Edward's stupid, shiny Volvo.

She rolled over and stared at the sky. She could not kick out the headlights on Edward's car. She shouldn't even be thinking about it. He had shown her what love was, and that was not the way to honor him. Love was hard, and it hurt, but he had not shown her this part of it until he went away.

The worst part, she thought, was the look on Jacob's face when she had run from the house. How could she ever talk to him again? He must think she was crazy. Maybe she was. There was this feeling she had, as if there was something she wanted, but she didn't know what it was. Something she wanted, so very, very much, but she couldn't have it because of Edward.

Silent tears rolled from the sides of her eyes, down her temples and into her hair. Above her, the stars were cold and sparkly and beautiful—and impossibly far away. She rubbed a snowy mitten across her dripping nose.

She couldn't tell how long she lay there. After a great while, she heard the sound of footsteps crunching toward her over the crust of the snow. She hoped it was Charlie come to take her home. Maybe he couldn't find her here, sunk into this snowy tomb, but she couldn't summon the willpower to sit up. Either he would find her or he wouldn't. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. She rolled over and pressed her face to the coldness again.

The footsteps passed her, then returned. She heard the sigh of the snow as someone knelt beside her. Warm fingers tucked her snarled hair behind her ear.

If her life had been a fairy tale, the boy bending over her would have been her knight in shining armor. As it was, _that _boy was searching frantically for her on the wrong side of his house, and she would have to settle for his faithful sidekick.

"Is this about the frosting?" said Quil.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading my chapter. I hope you will leave a review for me. As always, I shall personally thank you and offer a preview of the next chapter.<em>

_Study Questions: Whom do you suppose Billy was talking to on the phone? __Has Charlie sufficiently redeemed himself after his prank of arresting Jacob? __Clearly, Quil is an ass. But what, if any, are his good qualities? And c__ould Bella possibly exude any more angst?_

_Ah, I don't really expect you to answer all that! I just miss making little worksheets for my literature classes. But if you will tell me the parts that you found funny or sweet or ANGSTY, then I will be so happy. I think my readers are an awesome bunch of people, and I am always thankful when I read your notes._

_In a few days, if I can figure it out, I hope to create a "Bella's Guitar Addendum" file/new story where I can post Leah Clearwater's classic rock birthday mix tape—and any other outtakes I think of later. I hope you'll dig the music, too._

_Thanks again for your comments!_


	17. Chapter 17 Rage Against the Machine

_Hello Readers, _

_I hope you will enjoy this latest chapter. I'd like to thank all my new readers who have recently subscribed to my story and shared their review comments. I'd especially like to thank Wacky Wisher and Jane, a guest reviewer. Also, big thanks to Jessy Rhian, a new reader who commented on every single chapter! How cool is that?! And thanks to ilovfanfic and Girl Next Door 92, who sent me encouraging notes about looking forward to the next chapter. _

_RL Update: I'm feeling better. Drugs...so good. I'd like to express my appreciation for all those readers who gave me their sympathy and solidarity as I struggled with postpartum depression and manic depression. My story and my readers' messages have been a source of hope and happiness during a difficult time. Thank you. _

_Too much yakking? Okay, here's the new chapter!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen<strong>

**"Rage Against the Machine"**

Of all the people Bella did not want to talk to, person number two on her list of I-Don't-Know-How-I'm-Ever-Going-To-Face-Him-Again was kneeling over her as she lay prone in the snow, face down. Her nose was so stuffy from crying that she could hardly breathe through it, and her eyes were all puffy, too. She hid her face in her mittens and groaned, "Go away," but it sounded more like "Doh a-bay" because of her nose.

"Is this about the frosting?" said Quil.

_Ugh, the frosting._ Somehow, what started with a little lick of her finger in Charlie's cruiser had ended up with her fleeing from Jacob's house and flopping on her face in the snow. Mixed up in her tears and snot, her nausea and exhaustion, was the confused feeling that somehow Edward was responsible for this.

Jacob had taken her hands, had looked at her with sweetness and concern—and another feeling that she resolutely refused to identify—and what had she done? She had fled like a crazed animal. Now that the adrenaline was gone, she had a shameful suspicion that perhaps her reaction was not what Jacob had been hoping for, and that the style of her departure may have hurt his feelings. Just a bit.

Between her terror and that _look_ in his eyes, she and Jake had messed it all up. She was going to miss him terribly. And Edward was to blame for this, because... Oh, she couldn't figure it out, and didn't she still love Edward? Of course she did. Didn't she? Everything was all mixed up now, and she had killed her friendship with Jacob, and she still felt kind of queasy.

"It's the poster, isn't it?" said Quil. "Sorry. I thought you'd take it as a compliment."

_The poster. Thanks for reminding me._ Yes, she was highly complimented that a cartoon character on her underpants had become a weird sort of not-porn for Jake's bedroom. That wasn't awkward at all.

She could feel Quil's hands moving over her; he was brushing the snow from her hair and the back of her coat. "Jake's freaking out," he said, moving on to dust off her arms and legs. "He thinks he made you upset. Let's go tell him you're fine."

Fresh tears welled up in her eyes at those words. She was so not fine. She had lost her best friend, and...wait a minute, was Quil brushing off her butt?

He was. Very thoroughly. With a good deal of patting and rubbing. And some squeezing. She drew the line at pinching, however, and sat up in a huff.

"I knew that would get you up," he grinned, but when he looked at her face, his smile dropped.

She could tell by the way his shoulders sank, by the way his eyes quavered with uncertainty, that she must look a mess. Turning away, she wiped a snowy mitten across her nose. It didn't help, so she tried her coat sleeve, and then she just ended up crying again because all her clothes were so cold and soggy that they hurt her nose. She drew her knees up and folded her arms across them, hiding her face in the crook of her elbow.

Of all people to see her cry, Quil had to be the worst. She could just imagine the asinine jokes he'd make out of this later with Seth. They could hang up the poster and play pin the teardrop on the Smurfette. Why, oh, why couldn't it have been her father who found her? "Leave me alone," she croaked.

She didn't blame him when he got up and ran away.

Alone with the shadowy trees and the stars again, she collapsed onto her side and sighed snottily. On the other side of the clearing, she heard people calling out their goodbyes, cars starting up as most of the guests went home. A few of the campfires still glowed brightly, but most had burned to embers; she could see one, then another, winking out as they sank into the snow. _Just like my life. _She turned her face away from the light and stared into the dark forest. Blackness upon blackness.

When she heard footsteps crunching toward her again, she rolled over and looked toward the garage. To her surprise, Quil was coming back, wading through the snow, carrying some large, puffy mass in his arms. She found out that it was a blanket when he flopped it over her head.

"You looked cold," he said.

If she had thought it was dark before, now it was _really_ dark. She sat up and tried to get the blanket off of her, but it was quite large and her mittens couldn't get a grip on the fabric. And it seemed that she had rolled onto part of it when she tried to get up.

Though the sound was muffled through the blanket, she could hear more footsteps approaching.

"Bella?" It was Jacob's voice.

"Give us a minute," said Quil.

"But—"

"As in, go away, dumbass."

There was a long pause. Then she heard his footsteps retreating.

"You guys have a weird relationship," said Quil. "You know that, right?"

She tried to kick her way out of the blanket, but her feet became tangled. "We're not having a relationship," she said, but he kept talking as if she hadn't spoken.

"He gets so stupid over you sometimes. I mean, I heard about what happened with your old boyfriend. Everyone did. Which is why I'm always telling him to back off."

The rustling of his jacket and a dull _thup_ in the snow told her that Quil was settling himself next to her. She tried again to squirm out from under the blanket, but the thing seemed to have a will of its own. Somehow, it wrapped itself around her head and she fell over.

"You should thank me. _He _should thank me."

Maybe if she tried rolling onto her other side...? Nope. Still stuck.

"You have no idea how many times I've had to talk him out of doing what he did tonight. It's exhausting."

_She_ was exhausted. She stopped fighting the blanket and lay on her side, panting. Did this count as clumsy, she wondered? Getting stuck in a blanket? Surely this happened to lots of people.

"So he invites you for pizza. Fine. But ambushing you when you come out of the bathroom? Trying to talk about his fucking _feelings_? Real smooth. And stupid. It's like pulling the pin out of a grenade."

"Huh?"

"Well, look at you."

She could not look at herself. But she was thankful that Quil couldn't either, for she was suddenly self-conscious about her snarled hair, her soggy coat sleeves, her snot-smeared face, and her hat, hanging askew over one eye. At least being trapped under a blanket afforded her some modicum of dignity.

"Over and over again, I'm like, back off, dude. And he's all, Bella Bella, la la la. Flowers and shit. Makes me sick." He heaved the sigh of one who has long been suffering untold hardship. "I wish Embry was here. Jake listens to him. All I can think of is to razz him so much that he's too embarrassed to talk to you. Which is fun. But I'm a little tired of getting my ass kicked over you."

She heard him spit in the snow, and she thought she smelled the metallic tang of blood.

"I think I'm gonna have a black eye tomorrow. Nice shirts, by the way. Thanks for encouraging him to beat me up."

"You started it," she muttered. "Giving him a poster of my underpants."

He snorted. "That was a good one, wasn't it? But it was Seth's idea."

"I hate him."

"Yeah, well, he just loves you. You're lucky Jake called dibs."

_Dibs? Seriously? _"You can't call dibs on me. I'm not like a cookie or something."

"Hah. No. You're more like a chocolate cake. With frosting."

_Ugh, the frosting again._

"Which reminds me, I'm hungry and my butt is cold. Are you going to come out from under there?"

"I can't."

"What?"

"I can't. I'm stuck."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." He huffed impatiently as he rose to his feet and brushed the snow from the back of his pants. "I swear, this is the worst wing man job in the world."

* * *

><p>Later, sulking in a lawn chair beside one of the few remaining campfires, she reflected that Quil probably hadn't needed to be quite so brutal when he had snatched the blanket from her head and, grabbing a fistful of the scratchy wool fabric, scrubbed her face with it. She'd had to fight him for the right to wipe her own nose. Now, with the blanket wrapped more obediently around her shoulders, she thawed her frost-bitten feet before the fire as Seth and Quil strategized about how to mend her relationship with Jacob. "We're not having a relationship," she said again, but the boys just said, "Whatever," and huddled together.<p>

Jacob had approached them as soon as Quil dragged her back into the light, but with a subtle shake of his head, Quil sent him away again. He'd left with many a backward glance, kicking the snow as he trudged away. Then Seth had rushed toward her, his face red with worry and apology, presumably for the poster and that accursed key chain. Before he could get a word out, though, Quil snapped his fingers and said, "Cake," causing Seth to spin on his heel and speed into the garage. He had returned with more hot cocoa for her and a paper plate overflowing with marshmallows and cake. Two slices later, Quil was in a much better mood.

She blew her nose loudly on a corner of the blanket. She wished she had a comb, but her red hat would have to do, hiding most of her damp, snarly hair. Her eyes stung from all the tears she had shed, and her head felt wooden. In the firelight, she could see a large, purplish bruise swelling up around Quil's right eye. She wasn't sure whether she should feel guilty about that or not.

Very few guests remained at the party. Her father and his friends were standing around in the driveway, drinking coffee and talking about the Huskies' chances of making it to the NCAA tournament this year. Sue and Joy and some other women were clustered in the doorway of the garage, and she could hear them planning a trip to Port Angeles in the morning, something fun for Jake and his sisters to do while they were visiting. A few of Jacob's classmates that she didn't know were clowning around on the porch, and his little cousins, Brady and Collin, had appropriated all the peppermint sticks from the refreshment table and were sitting on the hood of the Rabbit where it had been pushed out into the snow.

When Seth tossed another log onto the fire, a burst of orange sparks blossomed and rose into the air. She watched the log sink into the embers, flames creeping over it, glowing hot, threading through the splintered heartwood and finding a foothold from which to burn. Just last weekend, Jacob had been splitting these logs, and she had helped him explicate _Hamlet. _It seemed like ages ago.

Now where were they? Had she lost his friendship? She had pretty much told him to get himself to a nunnery, and she didn't know if he could forgive her. Certainly Edward had wanted _her_ to go to a nunnery, and it hurt, because she had wanted—well, the opposite of a nunnery. It had been so hard to understand the way Edward thought. He had loved her, but he kept pushing her away. He had said they were soul-mates, but that they could never be together the way she had hoped. Love was so confusing. No wonder Ophelia had thrown herself into the pond.

On the other side of the yard, Jacob sat with Leah and his sisters at another campfire. The four of them kept looking her way, and the more Leah talked to him, the more Jake frowned. Pretty soon he was tossing angry handfuls of snow into the blaze, just as Leah had done earlier. Bella thought she could read the name "Cullen" on his lips, but it was hard to be sure with him sneering so bitterly. The twins stared from Bella to their brother with wide eyes, looking increasingly concerned. Leah just shook her head and shoved some sticks into the fire with the ends of her crutches.

Seth caught her looking at them. "I'd be mad, too," he said.

"What?"

"About your boyfriend. Leaving you like that. Like Sam did to my sister."

"I'm not mad."

"I'd be mad."

"Well, I'm not. He had a reason to leave. It was his parents; they moved to L.A." She said the words, repeated the story the Cullens had used when they left, but her heart felt the deception. It made her ache: the way they had lied to her, lied to the whole town. But she wasn't angry. Edward had left because he said he didn't want her, which made sense because he was so perfect, and she was just a human girl. Totally understandable. But for some reason, her stomach was starting to hurt.

Seth stared off toward the other campfire. His expression had gone pensive; his eyebrows pinched together. "Leah, she's..." He swallowed. "She's always smashing stuff. My dad's getting worried."

"Sam," said Quil sourly. "That shithead. Any guy here would kill for Leah to notice him. She's like our fucking Quileute princess, and he just... God, I hate him."

Glaring into the fire, Seth clenched his hands to fists. "If I were older... If I were bigger, I'd... Oh, hell, I might lay into him anyway." Then he turned away, but not before Bella saw the glistening in his eyes. "I thought he was going to be my brother."

"Fuck him." Quil put an arm around Seth's shoulders. "He's an asshole. Just like Ned."

"Who?" said Bella.

"Ned. The dillweed who left you. Damn, I'd be so mad."

Seth nodded.

_Why couldn't these guys understand her? _ "Okay, look," she said. "First of all, I'm not mad. And second, his name is Edward."

"Ned. Ed. Whatever."

"No, not whatever. He goes by Edward."

Seth and Quil rolled their eyes at each other. "He never goes by just Ed? _Edward_ is so—"

"Dignified," she said. "Formal. Regal."

"Pompous. Stuck-up."

She frowned at them. "He uses his full name because it sounds more stately."

"Stately!" they hooted. Seth said, "Yeah, and _my _full name is Sethington."

"I go by Quilicious. It's more stately."

Seth twittered his fingers in the air and said in a high, squeaky voice, "Ooh, I'm daddy's little rich boy and I fell off my pony! Boo hoo hoo!"

"Stop it," she growled. "You don't know him."

"I know he's a dick." Quil leveled her with a hard stare and held her eyes, daring her to disagree.

For a second, she hesitated. And then she hated herself for her hesitation, and her vision swam with tears again. _Why couldn't she just say, "No, he's not"? _She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. Her stomach was hurting, like that horrible feeling of nothingness that Edward's absence had created, except different. Beneath the ache, a new feeling was swirling within her, a frightening feeling, one she couldn't name. But she felt like she might burst. Seth and Quil were watching her with narrowed eyes, and she couldn't speak. When she lowered her face into her hands, Quil rose to his feet.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said. "And that's why I'm gonna do this for you."

He strode across the yard and into the circle of light cast by the other campfire. Jacob stood to meet him.

_Oh, cheese and crackers._ Was she really going to let Quil be her ambassador to improve her relationship with Jacob? The relationship, that is, that they were _not having_? This was ridiculous. Maybe she should just go talk to Jacob herself. Then again, she didn't want to face Jacob's sisters, who were perched on a log with their hands clasped before their hearts, their eyes flicking hopefully from her to Jacob to Quil, or Leah, who sat watching them all with one eyebrow quirked at a disdainful angle.

Or maybe she should go ask Charlie to take her home. She rose to her feet, but Seth laid a hand on her arm. "Stay," he said softly.

She made the mistake of looking at him. If she ever got a puppy, she bet its eyes would look like Seth's. All brown and trembly with sweetness. Except that a puppy wouldn't use them for manipulative purposes. _Dang it. _She sat down again.

On the other side of the yard, Quil's parleying skills left a lot to be desired. He was talking to Jacob, but looking at Rebecca with a slow half-smile spreading over the side of his face that wasn't swollen up beneath his black eye. When Rebecca blushed, Jacob's eyes shot suspiciously between the two of them for a moment, and then he shoved Quil—hard—with his hands on his shoulders. Quil shoved him back.

This was not going very well.

"Dad?" she called.

But Charlie was busy. He had gotten a paper bag out of the trunk of the cruiser and was now crossing the driveway with it, approaching the women near the garage. He stood before Joy Ateara, mumbling something about laundry and last Thursday. Joy looked into the bag and said loudly, "Oh! My pants! Thanks for returning these."

From all around the yard, heads snapped in Charlie's direction, and Bella cast her eyes heavenward. _Was there anyone who had not heard that? _ It seemed that life could not be so kind. Joy was standing awfully close to Charlie, and though his face had turned pink, he held his ground. She could hear him offering to help her put the pants away in her car, and then the two of them walked off into the shadows.

Quil strode back across the yard instantly. "What the fuck is that?" he cried.

"It's what it looks like," she groaned.

"No!" he said.

"Yes."

"No!" he said again. He spun around in a circle and then plunked down on the log next to Seth, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

She might as well be forthcoming with him. "When I was at your house on Thursday, your mom told me some information about them. From back in high school."

He looked up with fear on his face. "What kind of information?"

"The worst kind."

"No!"

"Yes."

Quil looked like he might be sick. He shoved his fingers through his curls over and over until his hair was standing up all over his head.

Seth stuck a fork into a piece of chocolate cake and lifted a generous bite to his mouth. His eyes were twinkling as he talked through his food. "You got something against Bella's dad, Quil?"

_Good point._ "My dad's a nice guy," she said. "Your mom's kind of a tramp."

"Don't you talk about my mom that way!" cried Quil, and then he bent forward with his head between his knees, moaning, "Oh, fuck me."

Seth tossed his empty plate into the fire. When the paper caught, the yellow flare of the new flames showed his his grin. He stuck two marshmallows on the end of a stick and held them over the fire while he patted Quil's shoulder. "Don't worry," he said. "They're probably just talking next to your mom's car."

The three of them looked toward the garage and Mrs. Ateara's pink Ford Fiesta parked beside it. There was no one near the car.

"Or maybe they're making out in the woods," said Seth.

Quil's skin had taken on a slightly greenish cast.

"Your mom better not give my dad herpes," said Bella. "Or clam-middle-y, or whatever she's got."

"My mom does not have herpes!" he yelled, attracting the attention of all the other guests. Billy, sitting in the driveway, looked particularly amused. More quietly, Quil hissed, "Your dad better not—"

"Aren't you supposed to be worried about Jake and Bella?" asked Seth.

Quil rolled his eyes toward the woods and gave a great shudder. "Holy crap," he said. "I can only sabotage one relationship at a time."

Bella frowned at him. "I thought you were helping me."

"I am," said Quil. "By sabotaging Jake's plan." He rubbed his palm across his forehead and gave her a weary look. "He's got a plan, you know."

"I don't want to know."

"I know you don't. That's why I'm—" He paused to look at his mother's car. Parked by the garage. All alone. "This is really gonna throw me off my game."

Thwacking him on the back, Seth said, "You still got game. Now get back over there and fix things for them."

Quil stood shakily. He looked straight ahead. With heavy footsteps, he crossed the yard.

When he was gone Bella looked for her father once more. Not by the pink car. Not by the garage. Not in the driveway with the other men, and not near his cruiser, or on the porch, or... Oh, she felt a little sick, too. Where had he gone, and what was he doing with that woman? She bit her lip and turned her eyes to the sky. The cold stars and the flat white face of the moon offered no consolation.

Seth got up and came to sit next to her. Bending over in his chair, he scooped some snow from the ground and made two little snowballs. "Check it out," he said. He juggled them awkwardly.

Bella watched him with a fretful pucker on her forehead.

"Come on, cheer up." He spun one of the snowballs on his fingertip as if it were a basketball and gave her a hopeful smile. The ball fell apart and dropped into the fire with a wet splush, and he sighed. "She's not a tramp, you know."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she mumbled, "I don't like her."

"Well, she's not a tramp."

He tossed the remaining snowball from hand to hand for a minute. Then he balanced it on his nose and said, "Ooh! I'm a seal!"

She flatly refused to smile. This evening was turning out to be pretty rotten. She still wasn't sure if her friendship with Jacob could be fixed, and adding to that uncertainty was the fact that she had allowed Quil to sort it out for her. How was that a good idea? She could see him now, over at the other fire, pointing to his black eye and flapping his arms like an angry chicken until Jacob hung his head. That did not look like fixing the friendship to her. Moreover, her new red coat was soaked with snow and snot, her feet were still half-frozen, and her nose was probably chapped from all her snifling. To top it off, her dad was in the bushes with some tramp.

When Quil returned, his face was grim. "He won't abandon the plan," he said. Then he added, with a petulant grumble, "And he told me to stay away from his sister."

Seth looked confused, and Bella just slumped lower in her chair.

"However," Quil said, "he can see that you're freaked out. So he's prepared to pretend that the frosting thing never happened. And he told me to tell you, 'Just like you said.'"

_Just like she said._ She had said that, hadn't she? In the house, when he'd tried to talk to her about that moment in the car, she had said, "Nothing happened." And mostly, she had been trying to convince herself.

Quil took a seat opposite her, across the fire, and regarded her through the wavering flames. His face was orange in the glow, his eyes shadowed but his lips prominent, pressed together just the way she had seen his mother do, firm and thoughtful. He leaned forward with his forearms across his knees and said, "Come on, Bella. It's the best I can do. Please say yes, because he's all torn up over this."

She looked across the yard. Jacob stood alone at the edge of the firelight, his hands at his sides, watching for her reaction. Though he held his body still, his black eyes were wild with pain. She was reminded of the way Charlie had looked, a week ago, when he had fallen asleep on the living room floor after holding her hand all night. In the pale winter sunlight, his face had looked pallid and ill, and she had realized that over the past several months, she'd nearly destroyed him. Was she doing that to Jacob now?

She didn't want to hurt him. But both of them had seen what happened tonight when he'd tried to pull the veil from her heart. It was a sick, black place in there. She hoped he could understand that any seeds of hope he might try to plant in her would surely die in the shriveled, sunless forest of her loss, her hurt, and her fright.

If she agreed to this pretending, she'd be asking him to close his eyes to his own feelings. For her, he would do it. And she also knew that by giving her this, he was already offering more than she knew how to accept. A hot, shameful tear rolled down her cheek. Somehow, this wasn't fair to him. But within her, she felt the tug of their connection, and it pulled so, so hard.

She smudged away the tear and looked at Quil. "Okay," she whispered.

Quil nodded.

She smiled shakily.

Then Seth leaned out of his chair, wrapped his arms around her middle, and looked up at her with his big brown eyes. "Awwww," he said. "Love."

Instantly, the nausea returned.

"Damn it, Seth!" said Quil. "That's exactly what this is not about!"

Bella struggled out of Seth's arms and stood up on legs that wobbled. Her stomach rolled dangerously. Jacob looked like he might bolt for her then, and Quil tried to hold him off with a frantic hand gesture while kicking Seth's chair. "Dumbass! I just spent half an hour cleaning up their shit." To Bella he said, "Don't worry. Nobody loves you."

Her head was spinning. Could a person faint from a conversation? A really bad conversation? The fire seemed to be moving from side to side.

Just when she though she might fall, a steadying hand took her elbow. "Shut up, Seth," said Jacob. "Bella and I are just friends."

"But—"

"Friends," Jacob said again. His voice was cold.

She drew in a shuddering breath.

"Are you going to fall?" he asked.

"No. I'm fine." But her voice sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

"Good," he said. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

Quil watched him go. His face became bleak, tired. He grabbed Seth's arm and pulled him out of his chair. "So stupid," he muttered, dragging Seth after Jacob.

She didn't know if those words were meant for Seth or her.

When they had gone she sat down again and stared into the fire. This was what she wanted, right? Friends again. Like Jake had said. But why didn't she feel any better?

The log that Seth had tossed onto the fire was coming apart, cracking into pieces and sinking into the embers. She saw the coals burning black at the center, rimmed in orange, as sheets of flame washed over and under them. Like the heavy, unstoppable waves in the ocean. Like the yellow sinkhole of Edward's eyes.

She thought of Jake's hand on her elbow just now, so cold and distant. Everything was mixed up. This was _not _what she wanted. But she didn't know what would make it right, or why she kept thinking that somehow, Edward was responsible for this, too. That strange, swirling feeling was burning in her middle again, an unfamiliar, unnamable emotion, and her hands hurt where she had clenched them so tight that her nails dug into her palms. She stared into the fire, into the pulsing heat, and all she saw was red, red, red.

* * *

><p>At last she found her father. But he wouldn't take her home. "I'm having a good time," he said. "Aren't you?"<p>

She had steeled herself to be prepared for any sight as she searched for him, checking the garage, the parked cars in the driveway—everywhere but the woods, really. Eventually Billy took pity on her, saying, "He's in the house," and she saw that she needn't have worried about discovering some ghastly, spit-swapping spectacle. He and Joy Ateara were just sitting at the dining room table, placidly eating cake.

The house was warm and cozy, with a fire crackling in the woodstove and spiced cider simmering on the stove. Under the yellow light from the old and crooked chandelier, the crumpled wrapping paper from Jacob's presents still lay scattered over the table, with a few ribbons curling over the spindles of Billy's mismatched wooden chairs. She stood in the kitchen doorway and stared at them, not sure what to do after Charlie's refusal to call it a night.

"Isn't this cake good?" said Charlie to Joy.

"Delicious," she said.

"Bella's a real good baker."

"Delicious," Joy said again, and then she turned to Bella with a forkful raised halfway to her mouth and said, "Good God. What happened to your hair?"

Charlie took a second look at her and frowned. "And your new coat. And your boots. And your hat. Why are you all wet?"

"Because I was making snow angels," she grumbled. _ Because I love sobbing my guts out on the ground in January. It's so much fun. _ She stomped into the kitchen and tore several paper towels from the roll mounted under the cupboards. Wadding them up, she attempted to soak up the melted snow and snot in her hair. Then she wrung out her mittens over the sink.

"You look terrible," said Joy.

Bella tore another paper towel from the roll with such force that it spun around and around, spilling towels all over the counter. Then she had to wind them all back up again.

"Really awful," said Joy. "And your face is all red and blotchy, too."

_Gee, thanks. _She blew her nose loudly on the paper towel. Then she stalked down the hall to the bathroom.

The mirror showed a girl whose complexion varied sharply between cold, sickly white patches and inflamed, red, chapped areas on her nose, lips, and cheeks. Her eyes were red-veined, and her congested nose looked fat and swollen. Her red hat had become a soggy rag on her head, and her hair hung in wet, stringy snarls.

At least she could do something about the hair. She pulled open drawers and rustled among the containers of toothpaste and shampoo. Surely Jake had a comb in here somewhere; his hair was as long as hers. She could only find a brush with small, short bristles. Pulling it through her hair was like pulling on the leash of a very stubborn dog. Except more painful. Eventually, the hair near the top of her head was brushed straight, but the rest of it lay upon her shoulders in a puffy, knotted mass where the snarls had accumulated. Tossing the brush back into the drawer, she gave up.

"Yeesh," said Joy when she returned to the dining room. "You look even worse."

"Can we please go home now?" she said to her father.

"In a little while," he said, but he wasn't even looking at her. He was looking at Mrs. Ateara, who was eating the cake and looking at him. They were looking at each other. It was absolutely disgusting, Bella thought.

"You got a little something on you, right there," said Charlie, and he reached out a finger to wipe a bit of frosting from Mrs. Ateara's cheek. Then he stuck his finger in his mouth and said, "Mmm..."

_Oh, that was all kinds of wrong. _ She seriously considered gouging her eyes out, a la _Oedipus Rex_, but instead she just left the house.

* * *

><p>She sat down on the porch steps next to Billy's wheelchair ramp and folded her arms across her knees. Over by the garage, Jake was getting a lot of hugs from his classmates as they said goodbye. He returned them half-heartedly. Quil stood beside him, looking uncharacteristically morose.<p>

Jake had said they were friends again, but she still felt terrible. She also kind of wished she could talk to her mother. Whatever her flaws, Renee always looked on the bright side of things. She could find a four-leafed clover in a patch of poison ivy. And one time, Phil singed her shirt while trying to iron it, but instead of getting mad, she told him that the burned part looked like a dolphin. Bella tried to look on the bright side, but all she could think of was that at least her road-rashy butt was numb from rolling around and crying in the snow.

Seth came and sat down beside her. "Sorry about before," he said. "Leah's always telling me I have a big mouth."

_Whatever._ She waited and waited for him to go away, but he didn't. Instead, he scooted closer so that he was pressed up against her side, leaning on her. "Do you mind?" she grumbled.

He put an arm around her shoulders. "Is this better?"

"No."

Then he put both arms around her and squeezed her so tightly that she had to put one hand down on the porch to keep them from falling over. "This is what my sister needs," he said. "But she just kicks me. If she would hold still, I would hug her so hard..."

Bella tried and failed to squirm away. Seth was too warm and he smelled like marshmallows. "Get off me," she huffed, pushing at his arms, but he held on.

"I don't know why Ned would dump you."

"Edward."

"I would never dump you."

"Can we not talk about this?"

"You're so pretty, and smart, and a good listener, and you can drive a stick shift, and a motorcycle, and my dad said you can play the guitar, and—"

"I'm not," she said. "I'm not that smart. I crashed the motorcycle twice. I'm not pretty."

"You are," he insisted. "I like your hair. I like how you styled it, with these poofy parts at the bottom." He smoothed his hand over the mass of snarls on her shoulders. "It looks fancy, like one of those French dogs. Like a poodle."

She began to think that Quil was right. Seth was never going to get a girlfriend. Not if this was the way he gave compliments.

"Or maybe it's like a hamster, kind of tufty and soft..."

Perhaps it was mean-spirited of her, but she kind of hoped her wet coat was making him soggy. Hugging her at this point had to be like embracing a sponge.

"I would never dump you," he said again, setting his head on her shoulder. Then he whispered, "Don't tell Quil. But I can fix things for you better than he can."

She raised an eyebrow dubiously.

"Jake told me yesterday. His secret birthday wish. He wants you to hug him."

With one tremendous shove, she flung off Seth's arms and scooted away to lean against the porch railing. "I hug him all the time," she said.

"No, he hugs you. You let him." Seth reclined against the opposite railing, his expression more solemn now, one long leg sprawling across the porch between them. "There's a difference."

She thought about that. Earlier this week at school, she had hugged Angela and noticed how strange it felt. Good, but strange. And she'd realized that for months now, she had probably been standing there like a stick while her father hugged her. Apparently she had been doing that with Jacob, too. She frowned at the boards on the porch, all slushy and dirty.

"That's what he wants."

She looked toward the garage. The last of Jacob's classmates were waving as they walked down the driveway toward the road. Quil had his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet on the ground, and Jacob looked equally glum. When she caught his eye, his expression was guarded, closed somehow. It felt wrong. And she didn't know how to make it better. Maybe if this frosting thing hadn't happened, Seth's idea would have worked, but now—

"I can't," she said. "Everything's all messed up."

"Just because Quil couldn't fix this doesn't mean you can't." He nudged her boot with his toe. "And for the record, sometimes Quil doesn't know shit." Then he turned pink and whispered, "Don't tell my mom I said that."

She gave him a crooked smile. "Will she wash your mouth out with soap?"

"She'll wash out Leah's. She's such a bad influence on me. But Leah's immune to soap, and later she'll kick my ass." He clutched his head in his hands and groaned, "_Ugh,_ don't tell my mom I said that, either."

From the way Sue had cracked down on Leah's comments during the gift giving tonight, Bella doubted he was joking.

Quil ambled across the driveway then and flopped down on the porch between them. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. "I can't find my mom."

She was wondering whether revealing the location of his mother would make him more or less miserable when the heavy chugging of an engine drew her attention to the road. Headlights swung into the driveway, and a black pickup truck pulled up to the garage, its tires swishing over the packed snow.

Bella didn't know a lot about cars, but she could tell that this was a really nice truck. Sleek and shiny. Chrome running boards. Springy antennas waving from the top. Gleaming side view mirrors mounted with more chrome trim beside the windshield. An extra long cab with four doors, and sparkling clean aluminum hubcaps. On the shiny steel grille, she saw the silver head of an angry looking sheep.

"Wow," she said. "What kind of truck is _that_?"

"It's a Dodge Ram 1500 Laramie, the Longhorn Edition," said Seth, with an expression caught somewhere between reverence and disgust. "It's got a V-8 and only fourteen thousand miles on it when he bought it last summer."

"Well, it's a lot nicer than _my _truck."

Quil scoffed at her. "Don't tell me you've got truck envy."

"Who wouldn't!" she said, and she wasn't sure why Quil found that so funny, or why Seth had described it in terms of vegetable juice. Despite its beauty, though, she noticed that the front of the truck seemed damaged. The beams of the lights were misaligned, and the plastic covering over one was cracked in a splintered spiderweb pattern. "What happened to that headlight?" she asked.

"My sister's foot," said Seth.

The driver's door opened, and a man stepped out. He was tall, broad shouldered, and heavily muscled, the fabric of his faded blue T-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. In the glow of the full moon, the hard planes of his face seemed cruel, unforgiving, and he surveyed the yard with a tense alertness, lifting his face to the wind.

She knew that face. This was the man who had carried her away from her last chance to find Edward. The man who had had the gall to ask her father how she was feeling. Sam Uley. That strange, burning feeling returned to her stomach.

Sam nodded to Billy and Harry in the driveway. Then he thumped his fist on the side of the truck bed, and another man sat up, rubbing his eyes. Or was he a boy? Bella couldn't tell. His face was haggard, ashen, as if he'd been ill a long time or hadn't slept in days. Maybe both. Someone had given him a brutal haircut; it was too close to his scalp in some places, and in others it hung shaggily in his eyes, around his ears. Like Sam, he wore only a T-shirt, despite the cold. In one oddly graceful movement, he vaulted over the side of the truck bed and stretched himself, rolling up one vertebra at a time to his full height, and Bella thought that he was even taller than Jacob. He was lean but sinewy with muscle, and the expression on his face was a mixture of anger, exhaustion, and despair.

It took Bella a moment to realize that she had seen him before. Once or twice, in Jacob's garage. He was the same, but not the same.

"Embry!" wailed Seth. "What happened?" He started to get up and run to him, but Quil grabbed his arm.

"Let Jake talk to him first," he said.

"But look at him!"

"Jake needs to see him. Shit went down yesterday."

Unwillingly, Seth sat back down on the porch, and they watched Embry approach Jacob at one of the campfires. He kept his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground. Despite his size, Bella thought he looked small and lost. In the driveway, the men's conversation had ceased. They, too, were watching. Embry stood before Jacob and he didn't say a word.

Just as Seth had done, Jacob's eyes flickered over his friend, widening, and his face paled as he took in the changes. His mouth opened, but he didn't speak. He just stood there for a long moment, and Embry's face was burning with red. Then Jacob opened his arms and crushed him to his chest. The two boys rocked from side to side, and Bella could see Embry's shoulders shaking.

Jake ran his hands over Embry's butchered hair, his shoulders, and he stepped back again and just_ looked_ at him. Then he put his hands on either side of his face and pulled him closer, till their foreheads were touching, and they spoke to one another in low voices.

Beside her, Quil let out a breath she didn't realize he'd been holding.

The men in the driveway resumed their talk, quieter now, and at the other campfire, Leah and the twins watched the two boys with concern and confusion. Again and again, Embry would drop his head, shaking it, and Jake would pick it up for him, look into his face, and speak to him in urgent, insistent tones. Embry would nod, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. When he did that Jacob held his shoulders more tightly.

It was so painfully intimate that Bella almost felt she shouldn't be watching. She didn't know what was wrong, but she wanted to go to them, just as Seth had wanted. Seth's hand groped for hers, and she let him thread their fingers together, holding on. "I think Sam did something to him," he whimpered. Though Sam didn't look their way, Bella saw his face flush, and she took that as an acknowledgement of his guilt. She squeezed Seth's hand tighter.

If the snow hadn't been packed so firm, she doubted Billy would have tried at all, but he did, struggling to push his chair off of the plywood sheets in the driveway and toward the boys. "Son," he said, and they turned to him. Then Embry's mouth twisted grotesquely, savagely, and he turned away. His body seemed to swell, his hands shaking, and he stalked into the darkness, toward the forest.

Jacob jogged after him. "Emb, please," he said, but the voice from the trees sounded almost inhuman, growling at Jacob to stay away. His face crumpled. Bella looked from Sam to Billy; their expressions were nearly as pained as Jacob's, and she thought that Seth was right. Sam had done something to him. The boy she had met in Jacob's garage, slender and shy, with his sidelong glance and hesitant smile, was gone.

Rebecca's eyes flickered between the trees and her father. Her lip began to tremble. Rachel laid a hand on her arm, trying to catch her gaze, but Rebecca just shook her head. There was no more sound from the forest. Embry wasn't coming back, and Jacob stood alone in the snow with his shoulders slumped, the light gone from his face. He looked like he might fall to his knees.

"Bella, go," said Seth quietly.

When she hesitated, Quil spoke, his voice tight. "If you're not going to go to him, I will."

She stood. She felt the blood pounding in her ears, awash with confusion and doubt. She remembered her fear when he had tried to hold onto her in the house tonight, when he tried to speak those unspeakable words. She remembered the heat in his eyes when he had looked at her through the cage in Charlie's car, and her panic rose like a bird in her throat. But Seth whispered, "He needs you," and then she was slipping over the driveway, her boots crunching over the snow and the wind cold on her face as she followed Jacob out into the darkness. He was too stunned to open his arms to her, so she knew she had to do it. She pressed herself against him, laid her face on his chest. She slipped her small arms under his and wrapped them around his waist, hanging on. For one shocked moment, he froze, and then a hoarse cry burst from his lips and he clutched her body to his.

He lifted her from the ground, hiding his face in her hair. She felt the sting of a tear on her skin. He held her so tight that it hurt, and against her neck, into the soft skin below her jaw, he breathed, "He's my brother."

_Oh!_ Last night—Billy weeping in her living room—his photo album, the unrecognizable boy who had been Jake's grandfather—Jacob's distress on the phone last night, when he'd begged her to ask his father to come home—she understood now. "It's okay," she said. She couldn't think of any other words, but that seemed to be enough. "It's okay."

He held onto her. Then he was babbling, his words hot against her skin, asking her please not to leave him, not to run from him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He dragged her higher against his body, pulling her arms up around his neck. "I won't push you. I'm so sorry."

In her heart, she was sorry, too, but all she could say was, "I can't. I can't be—"

"No," he said. "You don't have to say it. This is all I need. Just this."

She nodded against his shoulder. He squeezed her so hard she thought she might break apart, but she didn't want him to let go. She lay her head against him. He was warm, and she had been cold for so, so long. Even when her body began to shake, and she didn't know why, he held onto her.

"Shh," he said. "This is all I need."

After a long while, he set her down and traced his thumbs over her cheeks. She hadn't realized she'd been crying.

* * *

><p>At the last remaining campfire, Seth and Quil were making s'mores with the girls. When Jacob and Bella joined them, Rebecca lifted her eyes to her brother, a question glimmering there, and he nodded. "What?" said Rachel, but Rebecca would only say, "Not now." Frowning, Rachel sandwiched a marshmallow between two graham crackers and tugged it off her stick.<p>

Quil was in much better spirits. He grinned at Bella through a mouthful of marshmallow and said, "Ah nooga kuh figga fo-hoo."

"You're really disgusting sometimes," said Jacob.

"Sorry." Quil wiped his mouth on his coatsleeve. "I said, I knew I could fix this for you." Beside him, Seth rolled his eyes. "Like I told you before," said Quil, "I have a Ph.D. in love."

Seth smacked him in the back of the head. "Geez, Quil. That's exactly what this is not about."

"Whatever." Quil shoved Seth off of the log. "As you can see, my prescription worked."

Bella said, "You're not a doctor, Quil," and he replied, "Thank you for calling me Doctor Quil."

"Morons." Leah held her roasting stick directly in the flames until her marshmallow caught fire. "Love is shit." The marshmallow blackened and dripped into the fire. She did the same to another one. Then she looked at Bella and said, "Holy crap, what happened to your hair?"

"I think it's pretty," said Seth.

Wisely, Jacob refrained from comment. Bella tried to pull her hat farther down over her hair, but she realized it was gone. "It probably fell off back there," said Jacob, and he got up to fetch it.

He hadn't been gone long when they heard the sounds of an argument from the field, and in the driveway, Billy cursed sharply. "Quick, the twins!" he said, and faster than she would have thought possible, Harry Clearwater crossed the yard and lifted the girls by the backs of their jackets as if they were a pair of kittens. Ignoring their protests, he hustled them into the house and held the door shut with his body.

Jacob was stomping back through the snow, followed closely by a tall, hulking boy. He was shouting, dragging a large, jagged-edged stick after him, and every now and then he whacked Jacob across the shoulders with it. "Get that thing away from me," said Jacob. "It stinks."

"Sam! Sam!" said the other boy, "He can smell it!" and that's when Bella realized that it was Paul Lahote, and he was beating Jacob with the broken board from her windowsill.

"Did you leave Jared alone out there?" cried Sam.

Paul didn't answer. He kept on smacking Jacob. "Am I pissing you off?" he asked. "Come on, fight back." Circling the fire, he grabbed the bag of marshmallows from Seth's lap. "Am I ruining your party? Your sweet sixteen party?" He flung the marshmallows into the fire and smacked Jacob again, asking, "How do you think Embry feels, having to watch this shit? How do you think I feel? I'm fucking exhausted."

Jacob wrenched the windowsill out of Paul's hands and dropped it in the snow. "What the hell _is _this?"

"Why don't you ask _her,_" Paul said. "She's your girl, right?"

Jacob positioned his body in front of her. "You leave her alone."

"Whoo!" said Paul. "Perfect." He grabbed Bella's hat and tossed that in the fire, too. The burning wool gave off an acrid smell. "Come on! Fight me!"

"God damn it, Sam," said Billy. "Get him out of here."

From the driveway, Sam bellowed at Paul to leave, but he only laughed, a wild, barking sound. "I've been awake for seventy-four hours straight. The only thing I ate today was a squirrel." He turned to Billy, shouting, "A fucking squirrel!"

"Can't you control him?" said Billy.

Sam flung up his hands, saying, "No. Actually, sometimes I can't."

Stumping through the snow on her crutches, Leah laid into Sam, too. "Did you invite Paul? You always gotta screw everything up, don't you?" When she reached the driveway, she balanced with one crutch against the back of Billy's wheelchair and whacked Sam in the shins with the other one.

It was hard for him to dodge her and argue with Billy at the same time. "This is not my job, and—Ah!—Damn, Leah!—and you know it. Do you think I'm not trying?—Dammit!—"

"We know you're trying," said Harry. "You've just got to try harder." To his daughter, he said, "Get over here, girl. You're going to fall on the ice."

"I'm sorry," said Sam. He tried to assist Leah to the porch, but she spat at him. "I'm sorry about Paul. He gets like this. And Embry's helping, but it's not enough. I think—I'm so sorry, and Paul's method is shit—but I think we need Jake. Soon."

"No," said Billy. "No. You can't have them both."

"Well, isn't that why you did this, old man?" said Paul, waving his arm around the yard, at the garage twinkling with garlands of lights. "The grand goodbye?"

Billy's eyes watered, and he didn't reply.

Despite her previous assumptions, Bella was now starting to think that Paul did not, in fact, have a crush on her. She didn't know why he had stolen her windowsill, why he had shown up here with no coat—and no shoes—or why he was harassing Jacob, but she was getting scared. Clutching the back of Jacob's jacket, she backed toward the house. He retreated with her, shielding her, and Quil and Seth positioned themselves at his right and left shoulders.

Paul picked up the windowsill and smacked Jacob again and again. Bella tried to keep them headed for the safety of the house, but Paul was stronger, shifting her direction and driving them all toward the forest, toward the darkness. Her fright escaped her throat in a high, keening whimper, and he laughed at her. When Jacob swore, Paul only hit him harder. "Fight me!"

Quil and Seth were yelling now, too. They each had one hand behind them, protecting Bella, and with the other they tried to block Paul's blows.

"Where's your fight, Jacob? Come on!"

At the edge of the tree line, Jacob's hands balled to fists. He put up an arm to protect his face and held his ground. His eyes darkened.

"Jacob!" shouted Billy. "Self control!"

Collin and Brady scrambled down from the hood of the Rabbit and raced across the yard. They stood beside Seth and Quil, slightly behind them, so that the boys formed a V in the snow, Jacob at the point, Bella behind their arms. They stood on their toes, their bodies tensed, waiting for Jacob to give them a sign.

"Holy shit," said Sam. "They're his, they're all his. Even the little ones. They're flanking him."

Billy's face paled. "Too young," he whispered. "Oh, Harry, no."

"Sam, you better end this!"

"Fight me!" said Paul. Quick as a snake, he reached between Jake and Seth to grab Bella. He jerked her arm, hard, and she fell forward. With another quick tug, he slid her between the boys and flung her behind him. She yelped, tumbling over and over in the snow.

"FIGHT ME!"

Jacob's body seemed to quiver, growing taller. With an inhuman howl of rage, he lunged for Paul. And in mid-air, another body slammed into his and knocked Jacob to the ground.

Embry held him down as he thrashed in the snow.

He spoke rapidly, forcefully, gripping Jacob's head in his hands and locking eyes with him. "Breathe," he said. "Breathe. You don't want this." Jacob's body was shaking; he seemed to be choking. Embry piled snow over his chest, pressed cold handfuls to his face. "Breathe, Jake. You don't want this." Reaching an arm behind him, he beckoned to Bella. "Tell him you're okay."

She scrambled to them on her knees and took his hand. His skin was burning hot. "What's wrong with him?" she cried.

"Tell him you're okay. Look at him. His eyes. _Tell him._"

"I—I'm okay," she stuttered. She tried to make him look at her, but his eyes had gone wild, shifting without direction. She felt her hand tremble, and she didn't know if that was because of Jacob or herself.

"Breathe," Embry kept saying. He put a knee on Jacob's chest and held his legs still with a heavy arm. "More snow," he said, and Bella didn't question him. Frightened, she pushed the snow over his legs and arms.

At last his eyes found focus. Embry held his gaze. "Breathe with me..." And after another moment, Jacob rolled to his knees and vomited.

Bella watched him heave and heave, until he was empty, and she no longer felt frightened. She felt... something else. She glared at Paul. What had he done? Her breathing became short and shallow; her body tensed. She felt that she wanted to run, wanted to _do _something, and her hands began to tremble again.

Rubbing Jacob's shoulders, Embry made a weak sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "You're okay. You'll be okay." Quil and the other boys knelt beside him, their eyes wide. Embry wouldn't answer their questions. Instead he said, "He's not gonna fight you, Paul. But you know I will. Later."

Bella thought it was over now, but the spirit of violence had spread like a contagion through the boys. Quil was looking at her over Jacob's shivering back, and his face was contorted with fury. "Fuck," he said. "I'll fight you now." And he charged Paul like a linebacker, shoulder to gut, knocking him down. He sat on his chest and pummeled him, face and ribs and neck. Seth and the others piled on, too.

Paul giggled. It was horrifying, thought Bella. Something was so, so wrong with him. He giggled as if the boys were tickling him and said, "Sam! Sam! Maybe we'll get Fatty, too!"

This only made Quil hit him harder.

Sam strode across the yard and thrust an arm into the pile, searching for Paul. With the other, he tried to hold off Brady, who was snarling and kicking Paul's head. While Sam was thus disadvantaged, Seth leaped upon him with an unholy string of expletives that included words Bella had never even heard of. The only thing she could recognize coming out of his mouth was the name of his sister. Sam floundered and went down.

For a moment, Bella imagined herself leaping into that pile, too. Something was boiling inside her and she didn't know how to let it out. All evening, it had been building within her, seething, burning, and she felt herself teetering on the edge of an unknown precipice.

At last Sam extricated himself and dragged Paul away from the others. He lifted his entire body and threw him at the trees, but he still wouldn't leave. He was screaming at Billy, screaming things that made no sense.

"Seventy-four hours! You know what's out there!"

Billy rose from his chair. Bella had never seen him stand, and he was even taller than she had imagined. In a voice that rolled like thunder across the clearing, he said, "PAUL, GO," and then he collapsed.

Everything started to happen even faster after that. Paul flung the windowsill into the air and dove into the woods. The board sailed in a wide arc, far over their heads, and landed in the campfire where it exploded in a huge rush of purple flame. The sound was deafening. Bella clapped her hands over her ears as the fire roared skyward, snapping and sparking.

Sue ran out of the garage still holding a broom and a dust pan, crying, "Fireworks?! That's _dangerous_!" Charlie knocked Harry to his knees as he kicked open the door of the house, yelling for Bella, and the twins scurried to help their father. Joy Ateara scanned the yard and burst into a full-out sprint toward the boys, calling, "Quilly! Quilly!" and he got up and ran to his mother. Heedless of the blood streaming from his nose, she caught him in her arms and held him tight against her.

Then Bella heard the thump, thump, thump of a dull, hard object being struck repeatedly, and she saw Leah Clearwater balancing on her crutches, kicking at the unbroken headlight on the Ram. Sam said, "Aw, Leah, not the truck," but she wouldn't quit, and at last the plastic shattered with a sharp crackle, tiny pieces of the orange and white lenses spraying over the snow. Next Leah kicked the steel grille. It was coming loose when she shrieked and fell backwards.

"Your truck broke my foot!" she screamed. "My other foot!"

Leah turned her face up to the sky and howled in pain and frustration and rage, and at the same time, the purple smoke from the fire blew over the yard and surrounded Bella in a noxious cloud. She inhaled the scent, sickly sweet, and it reminded her of something, something that made the swirling, boiling feeling in her gut surge through her limbs like fire, and she rose from the snow with her own piercing cry. She ran, her legs burning with purpose, and slid to her knees beside Leah.

Bella looked into her face. She felt herself falling into Leah's eyes. They were brown and watering with fury, burning and burning inside her, and Bella realized that those eyes were _her _eyes.

The aluminum crutch felt cold in her hands. She liked the weight of it. It felt good, solid. She stood and brought it down across the hood of the truck with a satisfying crack. She did it again. And again. _Whack! Whack! _

Leah shrieked, "You left me! You left me in the woods!" or was it herself who was shrieking? It didn't matter. She beat the truck until the hood had crumpled like a paper bag, and then she moved on to the chrome plated mirrors. _Whack!_ "You left me in the woods!" _Whack!_ "I loved you!" When the mirror was hanging by a wire, she started in on the driver's side door.

Such beautiful sounds. Dented metal. Shattering glass, tinkling like tiny bells. The resonant thump of the truck bed, booming like a drum as she hammered on its sides. Her hair swung in her face and her body felt strong. She felt _amazing,_ so alive, such vitality flowing through her, and the crutch whooshed through the air with a silver whisper, landed on the windows with the heavy smack of truth.

"I loved you! You left me in the woods!"

"Get the hubcaps," said Leah.

They dented easily and two of them snapped off, rolling down the driveway and into the street. Her throat felt raw and her arms were quivering, but not so much that she couldn't keep going. The screws that bolted the crutch together made such lovely stripes where she dragged them over the doors. As the black paint came off, the lighter base coat became visible, and the more she scratched, the more the truck looked like a silver Volvo.

Dimly, in her peripheral vision, she could sense some people creeping toward her. She spun around with a snarl, swinging the crutch to hold them off. She roared at them until they retreated. Then she resumed her work. She was thinking that maybe she had missed a spot on the tailgate when a pair of arms snaked around her, pinning her own arms to her sides, and she was lifted off her feet. That didn't stop her from kicking. Her feet kept hammering until the license plate was hanging by one corner, and then she was pushed face down into the snow with a knee on her back and one arm twisted behind her.

"Bella," said Charlie. "Honey, honey, please stop."

She should have known her father would take her down like a criminal. She spit and clawed, but she couldn't break his hold. And then her vision faded, the snow in her mouth ceased to feel cold, and she slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you, readers. I hope you will review.<em>

_After the previous chapter, I jokingly offered "study questions" (I'm such a Teacher-Nerd) and to my surprise, several readers actually answered them, and so thoughtfully, too! So if you like, ponder these new ones:_

_1. Can you sympathize with Paul, or are his actions unforgivable?_

_2. How does Embry seem to feel about his relation to Billy? To Jacob?_

_3. Charlie + Joy: How disgusting is that?! Wait, is it disgusting? She's a tramp, right...?_

_4. Seth or Quil: Wing Man of the Year?_

_5. Is Jake and Bella's relationship back to the way it was before the frosting incident? Why or why not?_

_6. And Bella's freakout: your thoughts?_

_Or just screw all those questions and tell me which parts you liked. :-)_

_I have soooo much planned for the next chapter. As always, I shall tell you about it in my thank you notes to your review comments! I heart my story's readers!_


	18. Chapter 18 Music Therapy

_Today is my birthday. Present to myself: finishing my chapter!_

**Chapter Eighteen**

**"Music Therapy"**

Mrs. Newton wanted Bella to carry the snowboards from the ski section in a back corner of the store and lean them against one of the larger display tables in the front. It was Sunday, February first, time for the annual winter sports sale. Mike was carrying hats and scarves and mittens, little fluffy bundles of softness. Bella was carrying the snowboards, and the boot bindings bruised her thighs as she staggered through the aisles. On the bottom of each board, bright designs hurt her eyes: a pink florescent zig-zag pattern on one, a neon surfer waggling an oversized thumb in a hang-ten gesture on another. The muscles in her arms burned from lifting them, and though Mrs. Newton kept suggesting that she carry two at a time, one under each arm, she could barely manage to drag one behind her on the floor as the tiny vibrations from the carpet fibers nearly shredded her skull.

Bella had never been hungover. She'd never had any alcohol to drink, really, except for half a glass of champagne when Renee and Phil got married. And a couple times last fall, she had chugged some cough syrup straight from the bottle in an attempt to help her sleep, but then she had lain awake feeling guilty about it. She had never been hungover, but she strongly suspected that the way she was feeling now was terribly similar. Her head hurt. Her muscles ached. She flinched when bright light hit her eyes. Her mouth felt like cotton, her throat felt sore and raw, and her bones creaked when she moved, especially her shoulders, which felt like she'd been beating a baseball bat against a boulder all night, the impact shooting through her arms and rattling them in the sockets.

On second thought, maybe a hangover would feel better than this.

"Hurry up, Bella," said Mike. "My mom wants us to drape these scarves over the snowboards. Make them look like little snowmen."

Bella thought that was a horrible idea, but she couldn't speak past the roaring in her head.

When she had awakened that morning, she found herself face down in her bed, still dressed in the jeans and white sweater she had worn to Jacob's birthday party. Her feet were bare, and she assumed her father had removed her boots. Over the back of her desk chair, near the heater vent, her red wool coat was steaming dry. Little drips of water still fell from the sleeves. She had stumbled across the hall to the bathroom, where peeling off her clothes felt as painful as peeling off her skin, and then she found that her muscles hurt too much to lift her feet over the side of the tub. So she had turned on the shower and crawled over the side like a Marine scaling a wall, but instead of leaping nobly and courageously from some great height, she had flopped into the tub on her back and lain there like a stranded turtle, the spray hitting her in the face.

Charlie had thumped on the door. "It's nine o'clock. Time for your shift."

"I'm not going today," she groaned.

"Oh, yes you are. And when you come back, we may or may not be going down to the station. I'm calling Sam now to see if he wants to press charges."

But her father had not been able to reach Sam, and he sent her off to work with that uncertainty rolling in her gut like a stone. It had rained last night. Her windshield was dotted with droplets, and her truck tires made a soft hissing noise as she drove through the gray, slushy streets. Sam's windshield, on the other hand, was cracked in four places, and his truck tires were probably the only thing she hadn't ruined. The crutch just bounced off of them.

She wouldn't be surprised if she were banned from La Push after last night. She could hardly believe it was she who had done those terrible things. Smashing Sam's truck. Screaming at everyone. Kicking at her father until he'd had to restrain her like some strung-out junkie on a cop show.

What must everyone think of her? Her father's friends—Billy, Harry, Sue—they must think she was insane. Her own friends—Jake, Quil, Seth—they were probably scared of her now. She was a little scared of herself. Some unrecognizable force within her had exploded into being and laid waste to what was left of Jake's party. And adding to her misery was the unwilling realization what while she had been shrieking at Sam, she had been thinking of someone else.

Edward. Her glorious angel. Night after night, he had held her while she slept, whispering words of love in a voice that sounded like music. He had told her that out of all the world, out of all the girls he had seen in over a century, she was the only one who had swayed his unswayable heart of stone. And she had desecrated the memory of their love in the most destructive way possible. She felt ashamed, worse than ashamed. And a tiny part of her was not sorry she had done it.

She didn't know what to make of that.

Then there was Leah. Something was wrong with that girl, she could tell. Leah was so angry, scary, foul-mouthed, and violent. Seth had said she was always smacking him around and was constantly in trouble with their mother. And her father was growing increasingly worried about her destructive behavior. Yet last night, when she had looked into Leah's eyes, she had seen a reflection of herself.

She didn't know what to make of that, either.

So she tried not to think too much about it, tried to keep dragging the snowboards over the wretched, bone-rattling carpet while Mike and his mother dressed them up in matching sets of hats and scarves. Bella thought that if no one had bought the snowboards by now, then certainly no one would buy them when they were dressed like weird, flat little children. Especially not when the bottoms of the boards were painted with swirly patterns that made her stomach swim.

She hoped Jacob didn't feel this bad. She couldn't quite remember everything that had happened last night after Paul showed up. She'd been frightened; there was a fight, a lot of yelling, and Jacob getting sick in the snow. Embry had been helping him. But why was Jake sick? What had Paul done to him? He'd been shivering and sweating, his skin burning hot and then clammy with cold, and she remembered holding onto his shoulders as he retched. She had looked into Quil's eyes. And she had nodded, as if to say, _Yes, do this for me, too. _Quil had charged Paul, and then something exploded in the fire, and she lost herself for a little while. Found herself again committing what her father had assured her was most definitely too heinous an act of vandalism to be addressed in small claims court.

Mike draped a red and white striped scarf around the last snowboard and stood back to view the overall effect. "What do you think?"

"Honestly?" She sagged against the front checkout counter, too exhausted and bone sore for manners. "It looks stupid."

Mike looked from her to his mother. Then he spluttered, "Oh, man, you're right," and tried to cover his laughter with a hand over his mouth. He was pulling the scarves off when Mrs. Newton laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I like it," she said. "Leave it."

"But it looks like—"

"Leave it." Patting his shoulder, she shook her head at him with a sad smile. "You're too young to know what will sell." Then she leaned closer and whispered in his ear, presumably so Bella wouldn't hear. But she did hear part of it, and she watched Mike's face turn pink. "I'm sorry, Mikey, but...not so good... your ideas... more experience... wait..."

He looked at the floor. Then he tied the scarves back on.

Mrs. Newton turned to Bella and told her to clean the customer restroom, and she trudged to the janitor's closet for a bucket. The restroom hadn't been cleaned since Bella had done it last weekend. The floor looked especially dirty. Her hands hurt as she wrung out the rag over the hot, soapy water in the bucket, and as she scrubbed behind the toilet, she discovered that her knees hurt, too.

When her shift was over around lunch time, Mike walked her to her truck. What had once been a shining plain of white snow was now a plowed parking lot, spotted with slushy puddles, the snow piled in dingy gray heaps at the borders. It was cold, and a misty drizzle was falling, beading finely on her wool coat. Smoothing her hand over her hair, she tried to brush away the dampness.

"Where's your hat?" said Mike. "The red one you got here last weekend."

Her hat. Burnt in the bonfire. Paul had snatched it right out of her hands. She remembered his hard sneer and the threat of his body leaning over her. Jacob had stepped between them, and that's when things got scary.

"I lost it," she mumbled.

Mike helped her into the cab. She was grateful for his hand at her elbow. When she pulled the seatbelt across her body, the muscles in her neck spasmed, and even her ankle hurt when she depressed the clutch. She turned the key once, twice, and the motor caught. Mike closed the door for her, wedging it into place with his shoulder. She hadn't known he'd picked up on that; it was the only way to get it to close securely.

He stood there in the drizzle, blinking his pale blue eyes against the droplets clinging to his lashes. He looked back at the store, then at her, and she thought he wanted to tell her something. When she rolled down the window, though, all he said was, "Sorry about your hat."

The motor was chugging, loud in the empty parking lot. She told him that she had liked the hat.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked back at the store again. "Do you ever think—" he began. "Sometimes I wish—" Then he stopped, looking down at his feet. He kicked a little stone across the asphalt.

_Oh, no, was this another crush? _ She did not need this. Look how Paul's crush had turned out. She stared straight ahead, hoping he would see that she was not interested, hoping she wouldn't have to tell him flat out and hurt his feelings.

He gave a great sigh, his shoulders slumped. "Never mind."

As she pulled out of the parking lot onto the street, she could see him in the rearview mirror, still standing there, raising one hand in farewell. Then he turned and walked slowly back to the store.

* * *

><p>Charlie was on the phone when she got home. With wincing footsteps, she crept into the kitchen and searched through the cupboards until she found a bottle of aspirin. Charlie watched her struggle to open the child-proof cap, and when she finally got it off, he snatched up the bottle and glared at her, still holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder, as if to say, <em>You deserve to feel this bad.<em> So she crept back into the living room and lay down on the sofa.

"Yep," said her father. "Nope... Yep..."

Typical Charlie. He could be talking to the Queen of England, for all she could tell. She adjusted a throw pillow beneath her neck. Half-dozing, half-listening, she wondered if he was talking to Sam.

"Yep... Good plan... Both of them..."

She wished she could have had that aspirin. Her head was pounding, and Thursday's throbbing road rash on the back of her thigh felt like a mosquito bite compared to this. Heck, forget the aspirin. She wished she had thought to take some of that leftover Vicodin this morning before she showered, but she was too weak to climb the stairs now and look for it in the bathroom cupboard.

"Fishing... Yep... Already in the cruiser."

When Charlie hung up the phone, he strode into the living room and tossed her coat at her. She could barely lift an arm to keep it off her face. "Get up," he said. "The steelhead are running."

_Was this some kind of evil father-daughter bonding idea? _ "I hate fishing," she groaned. "And it's raining."

"Fish like rain. Now move." He grabbed her ankle and shook it, and it hurt so much that she forced herself to sit up and don her coat. Charlie zipped up his parka and held open the front door.

Once they were on the road in the cruiser, he handed her a sandwich and informed her that he had reached Sam on the phone while she was at work. He would not, after all, be pressing charges. "You're damn lucky. He said he knows some guys who can get the dents out for free." At the intersection for the La Push Road, Charlie spun the wheel sharply, and she grimaced as the centripetal force tugged her body against the seatbelt. "His insurance will cover the broken glass. And his friend Paul likes to paint, so he's gonna take care of the scratches. Wouldn't have picked that kid for an artist, but hey, _some people surprise you._" He turned his head and cast Bella a withering stare that made her shrink low in her seat.

The rain was falling more heavily now. It seemed they were the only car on the road, the tires swishing, the gray forest and fields sliding past. As she chewed her peanut butter sandwich, she discovered that her jaw hurt, too. Jabbing his thumb against the instrument panel, Charlie punched at the buttons until the strumming of an acoustic guitar came over the speakers.

Bella gritted her teeth. Music. Just what she did not need. For months she'd been avoiding the radio, even television, because it seemed that everywhere she turned, somebody was extolling the glories of love. For a moment, she considered opening the door and leaping from the car, but that would hurt terribly, and anyway she didn't have the guts. So she braced herself to hear hateful lyrics of joy and togetherness.

Instead she heard, _"Love hurts."_

Oh, no. This was worse.

_"Love scars. Love wounds. And mars."_

It was a man and a woman singing together. His voice was gentle; hers, feathery, skimming above him, then full-throated as she took the harmony into thirds at the chorus. A second guitar thrummed behind the first one, adding a fuller sound, and Bella felt her pulse accelerate.

Charlie's eyebrows were pinched together as he spoke. "The way you've been moping around here these past few months—hardly eating, hardly speaking—you scared me to death, Bella, but at least you didn't hurt anyone else. But that stunt last night? That's just—that's just—willful destruction of property, that's what it is." He spluttered through some words that made her blush. "You've got to learn a better way to express your feelings."

_"Ooh, ooh, love hurts," _went the duet.

"It's why I gave you that guitar."

_"Ooh, ooh, love hurts."_

This song had to be the absolute worst Charlie could have chosen. Why was he doing this to her? She looked out the window and smudged a tear away from her eye. "Please," she said. "Can we please turn this off?"

"This is a good song. Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons. Classic country."

"It's too sad."

"It's a good song," he said again. "I used to listen to this when Renee left. It inspired half my songs."

A bass guitar kicked in, throbbing beneath the voices, and drums followed, a subtle thumping, the quiet swish of a steel brush on the high hat cymbal. The harmonizing voices rose in crescendo. _"Take a lot of pain. Take a lot of pain."_

Charlie punched another button on the dash, programming the song to repeat, and Bella felt that the fifteen miles to La Push were going to be unbearable. And why did he have to drive so slowly? Her lip began to quiver, and she rubbed the back of her hand across her nose.

"Please," she said again. "It's just too sad."

Charlie turned up the volume.

Rain fell on the roof of the car, pattering, pattering, and it washed over the windshield in heavy streams as the wipers oscillated in time to the music. _"Love is just a lie. Made to make you blue."_

Perhaps if her body had not been so sore, with every part of her aching, and perhaps if the day had not been so miserable and gray, she could have made it a few more miles. Perhaps if she had not exploded last night with an emotion so overwhelming she could barely understand herself today, she might have had some defenses left against this painfully beautiful weapon. But the song just went on and on. _"Ooh, ooh, love hurts." _Charlie kept turning up the volume until the bass line rattled the door panels and the music swelled around and within her, resonating in her chest. The voices trembled together, the woman's tone raw and open, and suddenly the rain falling on the car seemed like a million tears. She burst out crying, "Oh, it's true! Love huuuuurts!"

"Good," said Charlie. "You go right ahead and sing along."

But her wailing didn't sound a thing like singing. She was bawling like a calf in a barnyard by the time they reached La Push. When the car stopped, she was sobbing against the window, smearing the glass with snot. She was too busy crying to notice that they had not parked near the riverbank, and that Charlie was not unloading any fishing tackle.

Instead, they had parked on a quiet street near the marina in front of a single story yellow house. The hedges in the yard were tidily trimmed, although covered with slush, and an old brown truck was parked in the driveway. By the time she looked up, it was too late to run. Charlie had a hold of her firmly by the arm and was marching her up the front steps.

Harry opened the door. He didn't have any fishing gear either.

"Oh, fuck no!" came the voice of a girl within the house, and then Bella was thrust through the door.

She spun around, her eyes wide. Harry blocked her exit and hollered over her head. "You've got to stop breaking things. We're eating off paper plates because of you."

"And you better watch your mouth," added Sue. She was dragging Seth behind her. "I can't believe the words your brother has learned from you. He's just a little boy!" So saying, she shoved her tall and gangly little boy out the door as Harry stepped aside, holding Bella back with his arm.

"You're not going to leave Bella in there alone with her?" cried Seth, but his mother opened the door of the Suburban and stuffed him inside, saying that they were going to be late to pick up Jake and the girls. As they sped off, he rolled down the window and cried, "Bellaaaaaaaaaah!" and she had the crazy thought that Tennessee Williams could have written a play called _A Streetcar Named Seth._

"This is bullshit!" came the voice from the living room.

Bella tried again to squirm past him, but Harry was somewhat larger than her father, easily filling the doorframe. She could only reach an arm out into the rain and call, "Charlie!"

Her father walked back to the cruiser and opened the trunk.

From somewhere in the house, she could hear the same song she had heard in the car, and it only increased her desperation to get out.

"Are you even listening to this, Dad?" came the voice. "'Love is like a stove? Burns you when it's hot?' You've got to be kidding me!"

"Let me out! Let me out!" cried Bella.

"Did you set this shitty song on repeat? Oh, come on!"

_"Ooh, ooh, love hurts."_

Harry peeled her away from his side as if she were a starfish clinging to a pier and stepped outside. "You two need to learn to express your feelings in a healthy way. In a safe way."

"In a legal way," added Charlie.

"I'm not going to express myself with freaking Gram and Emmylou, God damn it!"

"Well, you better think of something then, you fool girl, because you're out of feet."

_Slam! _went the door.

And now she was alone with Leah. _ Crap._

"Bella?"

She was trying to decide if she should run out into the rain or just hide here in the hallway for the rest of the afternoon when the door opened.

"Oh, Dad, thank goodness."

Without a word, Charlie shoved her guitar into her hands and slammed the door again. _Double crap._

"I know you're over there," said Leah.

And the music said, "_Love is like a cloud. Holds a lot of rain."_

"Could you please come and turn this shit off? I can't move."

She looked out the window. The rain was still falling in torrents. Harry and her father were speeding away in the cruiser. And that horrible song was still playing. Well, she thought, if Leah couldn't move, perhaps it would be safe to look for the stereo.

The muscles in her calves twitched painfully as she struggled out of her wet boots, but at last she got them off and hung her red coat on a hook by the door. Clutching her guitar around its neck, she crept down the hallway, limping over the scuffed, gray linoleum, and peered around the corner into the living room.

The Clearwaters' house was a lot like the Blacks'. Small. Old. A little musty-smelling, probably from the damp climate and the near-constant ocean mist. Also like the Blacks' house, the living room was set with mismatched and worn furniture. A bookcase bore on its bowed shelves a good number of thick and weighty hardbound books, and a greater number of paperbacks with splayed, yellowing pages. A pair of wingback chairs upholstered in orange velvet, which must have been luxuriously stylish thirty years ago, flanked a window. She could see pale patches from sun-fading on the sides closest to the glass.

Either Sue or Harry had eclectic and questionable taste in wall art. Bella could not count all the knickknacks nailed to the walls on first glance. In addition to a framed family portrait, she saw a little mirrored shelf set with seashells; an oil painting of farm animals gathered beneath an overflowing hayloft—in the moonlight, for some reason; a set of tin leaves tacked across one wall as if scattered there by a violent wind; a cedar bark hat, which she had come to recognize as a traditional Quileute craft; a clock shaped like an owl; and a small pillow, held to the wall by ribbons and a thumbtack, upon which was embroidered the sentiment, "Nurses are Angels upon the Earth." She decided that Sue was the one responsible for this aggressively tacky mess.

She also noticed one framed photo of Leah, probably a school portrait, and four or five framed photos of Seth. He couldn't have been older than a Kindergartener in the most recent one. He had been a chubby baby, with round red cheeks and a lot of fuzzy black hair, and his mother used to dress him in tiny sailor suits with matching caps. Now chubby baby Seth grinned his impish grin from every wall. Bella got the sense that although Quil had called Leah their tribe's princess, in the Clearwater house it was someone else who was treated like royalty.

_"Love hurts. Love scars. Love wounds. And mars."_

Upon the faded orange velvet couch, Bella's unhappy companion held her hands over her ears. "For the love of God," she said, "make it stop."

Leah looked terrible. Her face was oily, her hair unwashed and wadded in a tangled bun. Dark circles smudged the skin beneath her eyes. Her feet, now both encased in heavy plaster casts, were propped on a pillow at one end of the couch, and her head rested on another pillow at the opposite end. One of her parents had tucked an old blue blanket around her before they left; she appeared to be sweltering under its unwanted warmth but unable to fling it off. On her sweatshirt, also too warm, was a whale printed in the bold style of Northwest Coast Native art. It read, "Celebrate Quileute Days 2005!" but she didn't look like she was about to celebrate anything. She reached for a small bottle of pills on the coffee table, and it fell on the floor.

_"Ooh, ooh, love hurts."_

Bella spied the stereo in a cabinet beneath the television. Bending over to reach the dials caused a strange, shooting spasm in her back, but she was able to turn it off.

"Damn," said Leah. "Thank you. Crappiest song in the world."

Blushing, Bella decided not to mention how it had affected her in the car.

"Do you feel this bad?" Leah flopped back upon her pillows. "Every part of me hurts, and I can't reach the Codeine."

_Mmm, Codeine._ Bella knew what that was: the blessed twin sister of Vicodin. She crawled across the carpet and retrieved the pills from under the table. When she passed it to Leah, the bottle gave a tantalizing rattle. _Oh, glorious Codeine. _"Do you think—" she swallowed thickly "—do you think maybe I could have one of those?"

"Your head hurts, doesn't it?"

"Uh, huh."

"And your shoulders, I bet. How about your arms? Your neck? Your feet?"

"Everything," said Bella. "Everything hurts."

Twisting off the cap, Leah shook a little white pill into her hand. "My mom's a nurse, you know." She popped the pill into her mouth and swallowed it dry. "She says it's wrong to share prescription medication."

Bella's eyes began to water.

"I say, fuck that. You deserve it." She handed Bella two of the pills, and that's how something wonderful began.

* * *

><p>The Clearwaters' carpet was a mottled shade of green, worn thin in some places and stained in others. It was also fairly scratchy. Bella woke up with her cheek upon it, and the old blue blanket was draped over her body. She sat up and rubbed her eyes.<p>

"Hi!" said Leah. "Want some ice cream?" She was perched on the couch with her casts up on the coffee table and a gallon of mint chocolate chip on her lap. She passed Bella a spoon.

"How did you even get to the kitchen?"

Leah gestured to a wheeled desk chair now parked beside the couch, explaining that it was pretty easy to push it with her crutches. "It's like I'm in Venice. This is my fucking gondola. But don't tell my parents; they think I'm lying here helpless."

She looked considerably better than when Bella came in. She wore a clean T-shirt and had apparently been able to propel her boat-like conveyance into the bathroom to wash her hair. It fell over her shoulders now in a silky black wave. Grinning at Bella, she shoveled an enormous spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. "Mmoog," she said. "Umm so hungrah."

Bella stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders. "Wow. I feel better."

Pointing her spoon at the pill bottle, Leah swallowed a mouthful and said, "That's some good shit, eh?"

The ice cream was really good, too. Leah insisted upon Bella's helping her to eat all of it because, as she said, it would piss off her mom. Then she picked up the guitar. "How do you play this?" she asked, waving it around by its neck.

"Whoa," said Bella. "Whoa, whoa. Don't break it."

"Relax. I'm not going to go all Pete Townshend on it."

"Who?"

"Exactly."

"No, who's that?"

"He's from The Who."

"Who?"

"Never mind." Leah plucked some of the strings. "Show me."

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Bella settled the guitar across her lap and played through the chords she could remember. G, D, C major. A couple of the minors. F major was pretty hard, and she got her fingers mixed up. Nevertheless, Leah seemed impressed. She asked Bella what kind of music she liked to listen to.

"Not much," said Bella. She passed her hand over the strings again. "I've kind of been avoiding the radio. I don't want to hear a bunch of silly love songs."

"Ugh, I hate 'Silly Love Songs.' Paul McCartney in the seventies sucked."

Bella wasn't sure why she had changed the subject, but she tried to keep up. "Isn't he one of the Monkees?"

Leah seemed appalled.

"Oops. He's the Paul from Peter, Paul, and Mary, right?"

"Damn," said Leah. "You need help." She made Bella put the guitar aside and go down the hall to her bedroom.

There were no purple comforters or fairy lights strung along the wall in that room. Not even any old patchwork quilts. Indeed, it looked a lot more like Jake's room than her own. Dirty jeans on the floor. Books tossed on the unmade bed. Clean, folded laundry set on top of the bureau instead of put away inside it, and tennis shoes caked with mud kicked into a corner. Only the bra hanging out of a drawer identified the room as belonging to a girl.

Leah hollered at her to look under the bed. _Please, please no spiders,_ she thought, gingerly lifting the sheet. Fortunately, she found only a large cardboard box and a few more muddy shoes. The box was marked, "Leah's Stuff. Touch it and Die. I'm Talking to You, Seth, You Stupid Little Bugger." It was really heavy.

She carried it back to the living room, and when she had flopped it onto the floor, she saw that it was full of music and books. Leah pulled out several CDs and spread them on the coffee table as if they were the gilded pages of a sacred text. "This," she said, "is the greatest achievement of the twentieth century. Let there be rock."

They spent the rest of the afternoon listening to music. Leah wouldn't touch anything later than the seventies, insisting that Bella needed to understand where rock had been before she could appreciate where it was going. She tried to listen for the chords and play along on her guitar, but she couldn't keep up with the changes, so eventually she just sat back and listened. It was fantastic. Wailing electric guitars. Thrashing, crashing percussion. Fuzz bass. Slapped bass. And lyrics more shouted than sung. This was how she felt. All this time, when Charlie had wanted her to sing about her feelings, she had been needing to hear this.

Of course, she had heard most of Leah's favorite bands on the radio tons of times, but she never really appreciated them. Like a tour guide, Leah showed her what to listen for, why it mattered, and how it was different from the popular music that came before. She played some Perry Como as an example of what rock had broken away from, and _holy crow_, Perry Como stank.

"Is that a bassoon in the background?" asked Bella. "That boppity-bop sound?"

"Yes." Leah shuddered. "People used to think Perry Como and his bassoon were cool."

_Horrors. _

Leah walked her through three decades and several sub-genres, from the backbeat of the early Beatles to the driving downbeat of heavy metal. And Bella was relieved to learn that the British invasion had not been a military conflict. After the first hour or so, Leah began to quiz her.

"The drummer for Cream?"

"Ginger Baker!"

"The drummer for Blind Faith?"

"Ginger Baker!"

"The drummer for Led Zeppelin?"

"Ginger B— Ooh. Sorry. John Bonham."

"Sacrilege. Now say it with me: John Bonham is a god."

Leah made her repeat some prayers for John Bonham's soul, intoning solemn praises for his double-pedaled bass drum triplet technique. Bella was thinking that he really did sound like a god, or a saint at least, right up until the part where Leah mentioned the forty minute percussion solos that gave Jimmy Page time to screw groupies backstage, and the part about dying in a pool of his own vomit. Except for those parts, he sounded like a saint.

"Name another dead drummer, quick!"

"Um, um, Keith Moon!"

Leah also made her pass a vision test by comparing photos of Mick Jagger and Robert Plant to decide who was more handsome. Not much of a contest, thought Bella, and _wow,_ she was a little jealous of Robert Plant's hair. But she did wonder, as Leah paged through more photos, why Janis Joplin seemed to have the same hair.

Wheeling to and fro between Bella and the kitchen, Leah brought more snacks for them and a bottle of Coke to share. It was a good afternoon. And not at all what Bella had expected when her father shoved her through the door. Leah seemed so eager to be nice to her, and Bella thought that maybe it wasn't true, what she had thought before. Maybe Leah wasn't so bad. Maybe, like herself, she had been kind of lonely.

Tucking her books and most of the CDs into her box again, Leah said, "Okay, last question. Name a psychedelic rock band."

"Purple Floyd!" said Bella, and Leah said that was close enough. She climbed down from her chair and the two of them lay side by side on the carpet, listening to _The Dark Side of the Moon. _

It began with a heartbeat. Bella wasn't sure what it was at first, that subtle thumping. She'd never heard music like that. The heartbeat was followed by some strange and disturbing screams, but then the bright spray of a major chord washed away the tension, and a voice breathed through the darkness. She liked the tinny swish of the cymbals and the way the songs bled into one another. Leah said it was a concept album. When Bella turned to look at her, she said it was like a story with a theme.

"What theme?"

"Time passing. Getting old, finding that your life is shit."

"And you like this?"

"It's honest. And it's about losing your mind, a little."

Well, she could relate to that. Bella took a deep breath. She closed her eyes, imagining herself floating on the sound. It was totally mesmerizing, this psychedelic rock stuff. Leah said that if she pressed her fingers against her eyelids, she could see psychedelic colors, too. _And oh, wow, it was true!_ Like some kind of pineapple-sunset-tie-dyed-T-shirt-peach-banana-smoothie day dream. _Who needs drugs? _she thought. _I think I'm high on Purple Floyd. _She smushed her fingers this way and that over her eyeballs. It kind of hurt, but the colors were swirling so beautifully.

After a while Leah said, "Geez, Swan, I was kidding. You can stop poking yourself now." Bella frowned at her. Then when Leah wasn't looking, she rubbed her fingers over her eyelids again. _Pretty._

They talked about college. Leah said she wasn't just interested in rock music; she wanted to become an ethno-musicologist.

"A what?" The music was all echo-ey, and beneath her fingers Bella could see shooting stars.

"It's like music plus cultures." She said her dream was to travel from La Push to Alaska, documenting coastal tribes' music. This had been done a long time ago by some crusty old white men, and now she wanted to bring a Native perspective to it and compare the past and present. And she could help preserve the centuries-old songs. Bella wasn't sure what a dissertation was, but Leah said this project could be one.

"I could maybe get a Ph.D. some day. And not like Quil's dumbass degree, a real one."

Bella thought Leah's idea sounded wonderful, noble even. Her own plans for the future were... Well... She didn't know. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd gotten through a day without crying. On the record, the singer was talking about _"hanging on in quiet desperation."_

She closed her eyes again, wishing she could be more like Leah. Leah knew what she wanted. Leah had a goal, a pretty impressive one. "You must be really smart," she said.

"I guess so. I try hard."

"No, you sound really, really smart."

Reaching her arms over her head, Leah stretched fully, arching her back and lifting her chin. Bella would have thought she looked like a cat, sleek and graceful, except that a cat was too timid an animal to compare with her. "I don't want to brag," she said. Then one corner of her lips curled with a tiny smile and she said, "Oh, what the hell. I've got the highest GPA ever at the tribal school."

Last fall, before Bella came to Forks, she had taken some AP classes at Forks High, and with those factored in she had a 4.3. She figured she was the valedictorian of Bella's school, too, only they weren't going to give it to her because she had attended there only one term; it was going to go to "some skank named Jessica."

"Jessica Stanley?"

"Yeah. That's her."

Leah said that she used to look up to Sam because he had always been a good student, but she had blown his record out of the water. It gave her some satisfaction, after what had happened, to beat him up academically. Her teachers thought she was a star, and the only one who _might_ have come close to tying with her grades was Embry Call. But he was a junior, and for some reason, his grades had plummeted in the past few weeks.

"I'm gold," said Leah. "I got a scholarship lined up. Now I just have to pray that nothing breaks my concentration till June."

"Where are you going to college?"

"University of Michigan, I hope." She said that school had a great ethno-music program, and for some reason its mascot really appealed to her. "Go, Wolverines."

Bella passed her forearm across her brow. She didn't think she'd be going to college anywhere next fall. The music had shifted into an aggressive blues, the improvised guitar line falling from piercing highs, the thudding of the bass drum pushing the tempo. It was too loud to talk, which was just as well. College was one of those things that Bella had stopped thinking about. Lying there on the carpet beside Leah, she thought that they might be relaxing in a green field, looking up at clouds. Leah's clouds would be fluffy castles in the air, kingdoms for her to conquer, like the clouds of Jo March and her sisters in _Little Women_. Her own would be misty shreds of dreams so long gone she couldn't remember what they had been. When the music became quiet again and Leah asked about her plans, she had nothing to say.

"You're not going to college?"

"Well, I—" _How could she possibly explain?_ "I wasn't able to apply."

Leah was silent for a minute. Then she nudged Bella's foot with her own and said, "It was your boyfriend, wasn't it?"

Bella nodded.

Beside her, Leah puffed out her breath in a heavy sigh. She wrinkled her forehead, chewing on her lip as if deciding whether to speak again or not. Then she did, slowly.

"When Sam and I broke up," she began, "I cried for two whole days."

"Months," said Bella.

"I couldn't eat anything without getting sick. For two days."

"I didn't eat much either. For like, I don't know. A long time."

"And then I got mad." She laughed, but the sound seemed to stick in her throat. "You should try it; I'm so emotionally healthy over here."

Bella turned her head. On Leah's cheeks, her thick, black lashes trembled almost imperceptibly. And when she raised her eyes, they looked the same as they had last night. A deep brown, burning with layers and layers of anger. But watery, too. She knew that Leah was letting her see her as she truly was. For a moment. Then she turned her face away.

Bella said she was sorry, that she knew how bad it was. And that she had heard about Emily, too.

"I hate her. And I miss her."

It occurred to Bella that it might have been worse if Edward had stayed and she'd had to watch him fall in love with someone else.

"Sometimes I think I'll call her and try to fix things. I haven't even seen her since the bear attack. She stays in Sam's house day after day, alone. I should go to her, but I just can't." Very quietly, she added, "I hate myself, too. I hate myself for that."

Bella reached for her hand, and Leah didn't push her away.

"And sometimes I think I'll wake up and Sam will love me again. I gave him everything." She wiped her other hand across her cheek. "I mean _everything._ You know."

Yes. Bella knew what she meant.

"And he used to say... Oh, I don't want to talk about it any more. And I'll fucking kill you if you tell anyone I was crying."

"I won't tell."

"Because I'm not." She snuffled noisily and wiped her her face again. "I'm not holding your hand, either. That would be stupid."

"Really stupid," said Bella.

They lay on the floor beside one another, listening to the music. The ticking of a clock. Bells ringing. A woman's voice rising and falling without words. Behind all of that, she could still feel the heartbeat, keeping time. The rain kept falling, pattering on the roof and washing over the windows in sheets of gray.

Leah said, "It was bad for you, too."

That sick, hollow feeling in her gut flared up again, but Bella didn't try to hold the tears back. It was a relief to talk to someone who understood. She told her about that night in the forest, how scared she had been, shivering on the ground. She told her about the nightmares and how she had lost her friends, had almost lost her father as he distanced himself, not knowing how to help. And for the first time it occurred to her that Edward had taken college away from her, too. Her throat felt hot and tight; it was hard to say it out loud, but she realized that yes, he had done that, and she was _angry_ about it.

"You should be."

Her tears spilled over her face. Edward was gone. She had loved him so much, but she was also kind of _angry_ that he had done this to her. He had left her living in the shadow of his absence for so, so long, until all that was light in her life had been blotted out.

She could hear Leah breathing on the floor beside her. Her hand was warm. As the album neared its end, the thrumming of the guitars seemed to swell in her chest; she could feel the beat inside of her, slow and steady. _"All that is now. All that is gone. All that's to come. And everything under the sun is in tune. But the sun is eclipsed by the moon."_

She didn't want it to be that way anymore.

Bright spots had been appearing in her life again, and she wanted to keep them. New friends in La Push. Angela giving her a second chance. Her father, still holding on. Even Billy had not given up on her, and he _knew_, more than anyone else, what had happened. It was a little scary, though, to recognize that the golden thread stitching all of this together was Jacob. Everything would fall apart if she lost his friendship. She tried to explain this to Leah.

"You won't lose him," she said.

"But if I did—"

"You won't. I know him. You couldn't lose him if you tried."

That made her laugh, a small, snuffly sort of laugh. She would be okay. Losing Edward had been like a shadow passing over the sun, and it was hard to fight an eclipse. Jacob probably couldn't do it. At least, not by himself. But she would help him; she would _try,_ like Charlie wanted her to, and together she and Jacob could do it. Someday, she would feel okay again.

The album ended with that heartbeat, enduring when all the other music had gone. _Kind of like me_.

"It was awesome, by the way," said Leah.

"What was?"

"The truck. You. I never thought anyone would stick up for me like that."

A slow smile spread over her face. It didn't matter if Sam hated her or her father grounded her. Maybe she was luckier than she thought. Maybe she had more than Jacob to help her through this.

She listened to the rain falling on the roof and turned her head to look at Leah. Her cheeks were pink as she returned Bella's smile, and her eyes looked different, warm and sparkling in a way Bella never imagined she would see. Did her own eyes look the same? She felt that they must. Leah was someone who understood.

Giving her fingers a squeeze, she said, "I'm going to let go of your hand now, okay?"

Leah appeared startled, as if she had forgotten about that. She tossed Bella's hand away and said, "Fuck you. I didn't want to hold your hand anyway."

Bella blushed, but she didn't stop smiling. She was pretty sure that was Leah's way of saying thank you. And inside her chest, the empty place felt a little less empty now.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading. Please leave a review comment. Did I mention it's my birthday? ;-)<em>

_I'd especially like to know your thoughts on this stuff, if you have the time: What do you think Mike wanted to tell Bella in the parking lot? What do you think of the dads' parenting choices? The Clearwater family dynamic? And what's your opinion of this portrayal of Leah? _

_Thank you. Your comments are always helpful and appreciated. Even if you just say, "That was cool" or whatever. I love to know what you think._

_BTW, I didn't cover all the events I planned on in this chapter. Ran out of room. (Like that's never happened before!) The next chapter will be about the evening of this same day. Also, check out my companion "story" of Bella's Guitar Extras. I hope to post "Leah Clearwater's Classic Rock Quiz" there later for your amusement._


	19. Chapter 19 Embry's Story

_My goal for this chapter: Not to have Bella crying all over the place. I think I succeeded in putting her on an angst-diet, at least for now. _

_Special thanks to WackyWisher, an awesome reviewer whom I cannot PM for some reason. Sorry! I am thankful for your comments, always!_

_Leah Clearwater's Classic Rock Quiz is posted in the "Extras."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen<strong>

**"Embry's Story"**

The fingertips on Bella's left hand were red and stinging. Leah had said her father would take away her CDs if she didn't at least _try _to write a song with Bella, so after the Floyd album ended—and after she declared that their hand-holding, boyfriend-break-up-crying thing had never happened—she pulled a tattered spiral notebook from the bottom of her big cardboard box and announced that she had written a poem.

Bella had not known that Leah was the kind of girl who wrote poetry. She really liked poetry, so she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her and smiled encouragingly.

"It's called 'Sam,'" said Leah. She cleared her throat. "'Roses are red. Violets are blue. There was never a fucker as stupid as you.'" And that was the polite part. Bella's eyes widened as the poem went on for two and a half pages, and then Leah made her set it to music. Violent, vengeful music. When they were done her fingers hurt and her guitar felt _dirty._

Now she sat holding an ice cube against her fingertips in the Clearwaters' kitchen. The room was small but cozy, with pale green painted cupboards and more of Sue's assorted knick-knacks nailed to the walls. A bundle of dried rosemary. A little sign that said, "If Momma Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy." She sat on a cushioned, blue vinyl chair at an old formica-topped table, the kind that might have been reproduced for a fifties-style diner. She suspected, though, that Leah's table was the real thing, handed down or bought in a thrift shop. On a couple of the chairs, the vinyl was cracked, showing the yellowed foam stuffing.

It had gotten dark outside and rain was still pattering on the roof. Since their parents weren't back yet, Leah said she would make them some dinner. She wheeled her desk chair over the gray linoleum and peered into the refrigerator. Bella offered to help, but Leah insisted that she sit still and allow her to cook something for her as a thank you present for trashing her ex-boyfriend's truck.

Bella covered her face with her hands. "I still can't believe I did that. He's going to hate me forever."

"Shut up. And fuck him, anyway. You are the most badass girl I never thought I would meet."

Bella had never thought of herself that way. She tried it out: _Me, Bella Swan, badass girl._ She blushed, but it sounded kind of cool. "Thanks," she said. "Thanks for calling me a— a—" _Drat. _ The word wouldn't come out. "—a tough butt."

Leah turned around with her mouth hanging open. "Oh, girl," she said. "After the music lessons, we're going to work on cussing."

Her search through the refrigerator yielded only odds and ends and leftovers, so Leah decided to make some soup. She set a pot of water to boil on the stove and assembled her ingredients on the counter.

It was really, really hard for Bella to sit still and allow Leah to cook the thank you soup. Did she mince the garlic? No. She peeled a few cloves and tossed them into the pot whole. Did she brown the onion first in a little olive oil or butter? No. She chopped it up like an apple and tossed it into the pot. Then she chopped up an actual apple and threw that in, too, along with something that looked like it had once been a meatloaf. Bella had to sit on her hands.

Leah said that she'd probably have to be absent from school tomorrow because her mother had not yet found a wheelchair for her to borrow. The hospital in Forks could probably have one for her by Tuesday. Nevertheless, she was frustrated at the prospect of being slowed down and falling behind in school.

"My mom says it's my own fault. And my dad says I should try to forgive Sam." She pulled a small cleaver out of a drawer and hacked a butternut squash open. Bella blinked at the swiftness with which she severed the neck and quartered it. "It pisses me off when he says that."

She didn't know Harry that well, but she knew Charlie. What had happened with Edward kept him up at night, had him weeping with relief when she finally laid her head on his knee and asked for help. Wouldn't Harry feel the same? He had smoothed his hand over Leah's hair last night as she turned into his chest. He had looked at her with the same kind of sorrow in his eyes that Bella had seen in Charlie's. But Charlie wasn't asking her to forgive Edward.

Leah's face was red as she spun the vegetable beneath her blade.

They heard the front door crash open then and the sound of wet boots squeaking in the hallway. Seth staggered into the kitchen, panting and bedraggled, his clothes dripping tiny puddles across the floor. "Bella!" he cried. "Are you okay?"

"Of course she's okay," snapped Leah.

Seth looked to her for confirmation.

"Yep," she said. "Because I'm a ba— a ba—" _Dang it. _

"Pathetic," said Leah. She tossed a dishtowel at her brother and pointed to the muddy floor.

Jacob and his sisters followed, looking somewhat less damp and bedraggled because they had taken the time to get their umbrellas. Leaning against the kitchen door, wiping his wet hands on his jeans, Jacob asked her the same question that Seth had, but he asked it with only his eyes and a little more faith in her answer. When she nodded, he flashed her a smile and held out his hand.

It was easy to go to him. Easy to step into his arms and lay her cheek upon his sweater. Last night had been terrible, with the confusion over the frosting and that frightening look in his eyes when he'd gotten her alone. But now that they had talked it over, now that he understood the limits to the way she felt—to the way she could even _imagine _feeling—it was easy to be next to him without worrying about that. He was warm, and it felt good to wiggle her arms beneath his and wrap them around his waist. "Glad you're here," he said, squeezing her tight.

With her ear against his chest, she could hear his heartbeat. It was kind of amazing. A tiny sound inside of him, steady, unceasing, thudding beneath her cheek as she listened to the rise and fall of his breath. She told herself not to think too much about why that seemed special, but hovering at the edge of her thoughts was the memory that Edward's body had been cold and silent.

Leah said they should all stay for dinner. She wheeled her desk chair to the sink and filled a pitcher with water, which she poured into the soup to extend it. Then she rooted through the refrigerator again and found a few more things to toss into the pot. Some cheese. An avocado.

The twins said they had all enjoyed their afternoon in Port Angeles. Sue had been so nice to plan the outing for them. They'd browsed through some shops and walked along the pier, watching the ferries cross the strait. And before they came home, Sue treated them to tea and cake in a little cafe, which Rebecca called adorable.

"They served the cake on these tiny pink plates, and we ate it with these tiny gold forks," she said. "Like in France."

"That's not how people eat in France," said Rachel.

"It was elegant."

"Stupid."

"Seth liked it. Jacob liked it." Rebecca looked to the boys to support her, but they only said they thought the cake slices were too small. "Well," she finished, "Sue and I liked it."

"I swear," said Leah, "you're like the daughter my mom never had." She tossed a few more things into the soup pot. Carrots, maybe? Bella couldn't quite see what they were.

Sue and Harry were over at Billy's house now, said Rebecca, watching movies with Charlie. They were having some kind of Clint Eastwood marathon, and it didn't look like Charlie would be coming to collect Bella any time soon.

That was all right, said Bella. She didn't mind at all. Offering to set the table, she pulled open a few drawers until she located the spoons. Rachel helped her lay them on the table. Then she looked through the cupboards in search of soup bowls. They were high on a top shelf, and even on her tiptoes she couldn't reach them. She was about to ask for help when she felt the warmth of another person behind her, a soft breath on her neck, and then a long, brown arm brushed hers, handing the bowls down. She turned to thank Jacob and blundered into Seth's armpit.

"Ack!" she cried, blushing bright pink. Seth turned pink as well in some sort of sympathetic mortification, and Leah whacked him with her ladle.

"You better watch out for him," she said to Bella.

Rebecca took the bowls. "He's just helping. So mean, Leah."

Rain pattered on the windows as the soup simmered. It was good to be inside on a night like tonight, thought Bella. Good to be warm and with friends. Jake and his sisters were flicking each other with dishtowels, and she had to hoist herself onto the counter and pull her knees up to keep from being jostled, but she didn't mind. It made her happy to see Jake laughing so much. Leah kept finding more things in the back of the refrigerator to add to their meal, and the steaming soup scented the kitchen with warmth and a mysterious combination of... of... _Hmm... _

"Damn, girl," said Rachel, looking into the pot. "What's in there?"

"Good stuff," said Leah. "Spaghetti is good. Tuna is good."

"Not together."

Leah offered her some choice words.

"Are these carrots?" Rachel lifted some small orange things in the ladle. "This is beyond domestically challenged, Leah. This is like criminal incompetence. Or gross ignorance of the laws of food."

"Those are apricots. And fuck you. This is my thank you gift to Bella."

The two girls turned from the stove to look at Bella, still perched on the counter and petrified now between their opposing glares of righteousness. Righteous indignation from one, righteous horror from the other. She knew who was correct. And she knew who was the most badass friend she never thought she would have.

"Smells yummy," she said.

* * *

><p>It was an awkward meal. Billy and Sarah had raised their children to be polite, and two of them had learned those lessons. Rachel, however, spooned several chunks of meatloaf from her bowl and lay them on her napkin with one eyebrow raised pointedly in revulsion. Rebecca murmured that she was not hungry, and Jacob, with his head hanging low, sat swirling his spoon through his bowl as discreetly as possible, as if looking for toads or newts. The only ones who actually ate the soup were Bella and Seth. Under the heavy supervision of the chef, the former choked it down out of friendship, the latter out of fear.<p>

Leah herself took one bite and shoved her chair back from the table. Then she seemed to reconsider. Spreading her napkin on her lap, she ate the rest of her bowl with her head held high. Bella wasn't sure whether her posture stemmed from pride or a desire to avert her nostrils. Whatever the reason, she had never imagined that raisins and broccoli could taste so bad.

In the living room after dinner, Seth set a plate of cheese and crackers on the coffee table. He called it dessert to appease his sister. The twins dragged the faded orange wingbacks from their place near the window to gather around it, and Leah pretended not to notice that everyone ate far more dessert than dinner.

Instead, she used her crutches to propel her chair to the turntable and put on some music for them. Bella looked at the record jacket: four guys crossing a street, one in a ridiculous white suit, one barefoot. _Abbey Road. _She liked it. And she thought that, like the dining room table, Leah had this album on vinyl not because it was a trendy reproduction, but because it was an original issue, handed down. She could hear the quiet crackle and pop of dust against the needle. It combined with the rain on the roof in a soothing undercurrent of sound.

There weren't enough seats for everyone, so Jacob sat at Bella's feet, resting his back on the couch beside her legs. He wrapped one hand around her ankle, and she thought that was typical of him; he always found a way to connect them. Before last night, she would have found it worrisome, but now that they'd talked, now that he knew where she stood, it was fine. His hand was warm and it felt so nice. She knew where he stood, too. Which was not pushing.

Rebecca said she and Rachel were going home in the morning, back to the airport, back to the dorms, and she wished she could have seen Embry more. She had called his house before and after their Port Angeles trip, but his mother said he had been gone all day—and she was none too friendly over the phone, either.

"Didn't you see him last night?" said Leah.

"Well, yes." She looked at Jacob with a little pucker in her brow. "But we wanted to, um, see him again."

"_You _wanted to see him again," muttered Rachel.

Leah shrugged. "Phone's in the kitchen."

When Rebecca returned a moment later, she was smiling. "He was at Quil's house." She flopped back into the orange velvet chair next to her sister and whispered, "Don't be a jerk when he gets here."

"Whatever," hissed Rachel.

Bella didn't think the Clearwaters had heard that exchange, but she knew Jacob had. She could feel the stiff way he held his shoulders where he leaned against her knee. She remembered what he had told her about Embry last night, and she remembered what she had said to him then. "It'll be okay," she whispered. When she felt him relax, she thought that she must have done the right thing.

Leah flipped the record, and the B side was more mellow. Bella lay back against the couch and closed her eyes. It was getting late, and she felt a bit sleepy. Seth was talking about shooting lay ups on the lot behind the school, and he sounded a little cocky when he said how much easier it was, now that he'd grown a few more inches this winter. She smiled to hear him bragging. Most other times when she'd seen him, he'd been blushing and tripping over himself, or blinking at her with his big puppy eyes, and she thought maybe his confidence came from being on his home turf. Leah called him a dipshit. She grabbed him by the collar and tickled his neck until he fell on the floor, squealing.

Bella closed her eyes again. It was so nice to be here, relaxing with friends, and under the coffee table, Jacob's hand on her ankle felt nice, too. His thumb was rubbing tiny circles over her skin where her sock had slipped down. Or maybe his hand had slipped inside her sock. After their talk last night, he knew how she felt, what she could and could not be for him, and so it was perfectly okay for him to put his hand in her sock.

In the back of her mind was the niggling memory of Quil saying that Jacob refused to abandon the plan, and she didn't want to think too much about what the plan probably was. His hand was warm and it felt really good, so it was better to think about how Jacob was the kind of friend who understood and respected her wishes on the matter. A very good friend. Good. Yes, mmm, good. His thumb had pushed farther into her sock until it found the arch of her foot, and now it was moving over her skin in firm and fluid strokes, pressing hard then soft, hard then soft, sliding so warm and smooth, and oh, wow, his hands were strong. His big fingers were stretching the fabric of her sock, stretching it so tight as he pressed inside, his thumb sliding deeper, stretching the sock, and she was thinking that it would feel even better if he took that sock _off, _yes, _off, off, off,_ please, _off_, please, _Jacob, _take it _off_, and then she realized that her fingers were digging into his shoulder and Leah was looking at her kind of funny.

She stood. "I, uh..." Now everyone was looking at her funny. "Bathroom?" She climbed over Jacob's knees and scurried down the hall.

_What the heck had happened back there? _ She leaned against the wall and passed her hands over her face. Her cheeks felt hot and a little sweaty. She did not need to get mixed up in another frosting type of incident. Why, it had only been one day since they had come to an understanding about all that, and now he had... He had... _Hmm..._ _What exactly had he done? _ Touched her foot? That wasn't a crime. And _he_ certainly hadn't leaped up and run out of the room, all red-faced and short of breath. Clearly, she was over-reacting.

In fact, maybe half of that frosting problem had been her panicked over-reaction when Jacob tried to tell her how he felt about... _Ugh, do not think of that. _And there was no need for her to panic again because he _promised _he wouldn't push her. Yes, trying to talk about it had been the worst. _That _was pushing. And since Jacob had promised never to speak of the frosting again, she was pretty sure he would never speak of the sock again, either. He was very trustworthy that way, so she would just... not think about this any more. _Problem solved? I think so? _

She sighed and looked down at her feet. One of her socks lay prim and snug against her ankle, and the other lay limp and exhausted, half on the floor. It would never be the same.

Maybe she'd feel better after she splashed some cold water on her face. But there were four or five doors in the hall, and she didn't want to go poking her nose into all the rooms in Leah's house. She had to holler to the living room to inquire which door was the bathroom, and Leah hollered back that it was the door on the right. She also called her a dipshit. Unfortunately, there were two doors on the right side of the hallway, and Bella chose the wrong one.

The room she found herself in was a little messy. There was a striped yellow bedspread half on the bed and half not, tangled up with some unfolded T-shirts and a pillow. Dirty socks had been tossed in a corner. An 8th grade math book lay open on a small, wooden desk, and there was a basketball sticking out of a drawer. A poster of Justin Timberlake on the closet door made her roll her eyes, and she was turning to leave when a small blue object on top of the bureau caught her attention. As she approached, the words of Dorothy Parker came to mind: _What fresh hell is this? _

The blue object was not alone. There must have been a dozen tiny figures posed in various attitudes of frolic: Smurfette with a flower. Smurfette blowing a kiss. Smurfette lifting the hem of her little white dress in a flirtatious manner. Smurfette with a kitten, with a balloon, with a magic wand shaped like a sparkly star, and Smurfette riding a plastic pony with her yellow hair blowing behind her in an imaginary breeze.

Curled on the bureau beside them was a white slip of paper. The receipt was dated Friday, January 30, the day before Jacob's birthday, and as she read through the itemized bill of sale, she saw that not all of the objects purchased were here on the bureau. She knew where the key chain and the poster had ended up. But where was the Smurfette picture frame? And the—_Oh, Holy Mother of... God Bless America!_—the huggable six inch doll?

Her mouth hung open. Did Leah know about this? She probably suspected, or she wouldn't have whacked him so hard when he snuck up behind her in the kitchen. And Quil—he had said she was lucky Jake called dibs. Her stomach felt a little queasy; she wasn't sure if she should be flattered or horrified. When she spotted a tiny figure of Smurfette in a wedding dress carrying a teeny tiny bouquet of tulips, she decided to go with horrified. As soon as she told Jacob about this, he was going to kick Seth's butt. She spun around. Then another thought made her pause. She couldn't ask Jacob to avenge her. That was a job for a boyfriend.

Oh, she felt sick. She stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. In the mirror, her eyes were glittering and her complexion was partly pallid with shock, but mostly still flushed from what had happened under the coffee table. She had worn another of her new sweaters today, a pale pink one with a low, rounded neckline, and the soft color only seemed to amplify the way the skin on her chest glowed with rosiness and a fine sheen of perspiration. Jacob was probably going to notice that. Crap, and Seth, too. She splashed more cold water on her chest.

When she returned to the living room she kept her eyes on the floor and her feet on the couch, tucked under her legs. Seth cuddled up next to her, and she couldn't look at him.

"Are you okay?" said Rachel. "You look all red and sweaty."

Jacob said nothing. But Seth leaned closer and whispered that to him, she looked lovely, just and pink and sweet as a watermelon.

* * *

><p>When Embry arrived, he was kind of a mess. His jeans were soaked through, muddy at the cuffs and knees, and the boots he kicked off in the hallway were caked with grime. "Whoo!" he said, shaking his head and sending rainwater everywhere. "Found you."<p>

He said he'd missed the twins earlier because he'd been away all day, and now he was so glad to have found them _not_ at home. Jacob nodded with understanding. Then Embry peeled off his muddy T-shirt, which was too small and tight and practically transparent with dampness, and Bella thought _Wow, he HAS changed._

Last night she had thought he looked different, and now in the light she could see it for certain. The black hair that had hung to his chin, brushing his hesitant smile, had been raggedly hacked off, but that seemed a minor change compared to the way his body looked. He seemed taller. Broader. Older, somehow. Heavier and larger than before. She could see the definition and bulk of muscle along his arms, over his chest and abdomen. When he peeled off the shirt, flexing his shoulders, narrowing his waist and stretching the skin taut over the muscles of his stomach, she blinked. Seventeen year olds did not look like this.

"What the hell are you taking, Emb, and how much?" said Leah. "You're going to kill yourself."

He blushed and clutched the T-shirt in front of his chest. "Ah, shit," he said. "I'm such a freak."

After his sister smacked him into action, Seth jumped up and skittered down the hall to find some dry clothes of Harry's. Embry said he was pretty sure Harry would understand if he borrowed them, and the laugh he gave sounded a little strange. But he followed Seth and came back dressed in khakis and old flannel. From somewhere in the back of the house, Bella could hear the flop of his wet things in the clothes dryer.

Rebecca wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her face into his shirt. She sniffled so much that he said, "Stop, stop, you're going to make me all wet again," but his eyes were a little watery, too. Leah looked from Embry to Rebecca to Jacob, and she looked at Rachel slouched in her orange chair with her arms folded across her chest, and her eyes widened.

"No!" she said.

"Yep," said Jacob.

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Well, shit."

Embry said that about summed it up.

Bella understood, but Seth had to have it spelled out for him. Then he wanted to get in on the hug.

Naturally, there were a lot of questions. How had he found out? What had Billy said to him, after all this time, and why now? And what about his mother? Hadn't she always said—

"I know, I know. She always said my dad was an abusive asshole from Neah Bay and she didn't want me to meet him. Wouldn't even tell me his name."

"Billy?" said Leah. "Seriously? Chief Billy Do-No-Wrong Black, living next door all this time?"

"At least she got the asshole part right."

Rachel frowned at the carpet.

And naturally, there were more questions. What was he going to do now? Was his mother okay? Rebecca wanted to know why he was so warm, and Seth wanted to know why he looked so different from the last time they'd seen him. Come to think of it, Jacob had some questions about that, too. But Embry wouldn't answer them, saying only that he was so tired and hungry he could hardly think straight.

Rebecca pushed him into her chair, and Seth ladled some soup into a bowl for him. As he handed it to Embry, he murmured that it wasn't very good, but Embry waved the spoon aside and drank it hot and straight from the bowl in long gulps. He did the same to a second and third, and he looked so glad and grateful that his eyes watered again.

"Are you sick, Emb?" Rebecca lay her hand on his cheek.

"I wish." He downed a fourth bowl.

"Is it drugs? Steroids? Let us help you."

"Not drugs. And what the fuck, is this an apricot? Apricot soup?"

"Seth made it," said Leah.

He shrugged and asked for more. And he continued to dodge their questions. He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face. "Please," he said. "Can I just sit with you for a while and not worry about anything?"

Jacob pressed his lips together. "Fine," he said, though Bella could tell he was not at all fine with this. When he sat down beside her on the couch, she could feel the tension in his body where his arm brushed her shoulder.

For a while, everyone tried to give Embry what he wanted. Jacob sat with his jaw clenched as the others tried to make cheerful conversation. Seth talked about basketball, but for some reason, Embry seemed distressed to hear about his improvement. Rebecca tried talking about the surf school her husband Solomon hoped to open, a little business of their own, but she hadn't the heart to keep up the pretense very long. Rachel was no help at all, so Leah picked up the slack by telling how pissed off she was that Sam's truck had broken her feet. This reminded Bella that she had committed a violent crime last night, and she dropped her head into her hands with a groan.

Embry laughed at her. "Don't worry," he said. "Sam doesn't blame you."

"How can he not? I totally—"

"No. He knows why you did it. And he blames Paul."

That made no sense. But Embry said that he blamed Paul, too, for a lot of things. And for what it was worth, he had discussed the matter with Paul last night after the party, and now Paul was lying at home feeling rather unwell. Besides, he said, what Bella had done was pretty amazing.

"I'll never forget it." He leaned back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head. "Big black truck. Tiny girl in red coat. Glass flying everywhere. The guys were all impressed."

She set her elbows on her knees and shoved her hands through her hair. "My father wasn't."

"Sam's going to talk to him. And anyway, the guys are all calling you Little Red Wrecking Hood now."

That did _not_ make her feel better.

"The guys," scoffed Jacob. "That used to be you and me and Quil, remember?"

Embry's smile dropped. He said he was working on that. Things had been awful lately, but he wasn't going to let Sam keep him from his friends forever. In fact, Sam had advised him not to come here tonight, but he'd fought that until he could break free.

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Jacob, and Leah wanted to know why he cared what Sam said about anything, that stupid fucker.

"He's not so bad."

"He's a stupid fucker," she repeated.

"Okay, okay, he's a stupid fucker." He exhaled heavily. He asked them please to understand that he was doing his best, but that things were horribly complicated. And they were the kinds of things that he didn't want to think about, much less talk about.

That only led to more questions.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what happened with Paul last night." Jacob leveled him with a hard stare. Embry stared back with his jaw held tight.

"At least," said Rachel, "tell us who gave you that shitty haircut."

Blushing pink again, he lowered his head to ruffle his hand through the scraggly locks. "Jared," he mumbled. "_That_ I can tell you." When they stared at him, he added, "He was trying to help."

"Was he drunk?"

"He was chasing me. Long story."

That made no sense either. But Bella thought that if Jared's haircuts were this bad, she would have tried to run away, too. Rebecca said she could fix it. She took him to the kitchen, where Seth found some shears for her in a drawer. When he came back he looked much better, though she fussed over how short she'd had to cut most of it. Only on top had she been able to save some of the length. She brushed the soft strands over his forehead, saying, "Shaggy is stylish, right guys?" And behind his back she glared at them until they agreed.

Embry himself gave an odd little laugh. "Shaggy," he said. "Great." But he thanked her and flopped back into his seat with a tired smile. "Oh, I miss you guys."

He said he had stopped at Quil's house earlier, thinking he might find them there, and it was good to see him, too. His mom had made him stay in the hall because of his muddy feet, but he didn't mind. He had a cousin now. That was kind of nice. "And you want to hear something funny? Guess what that fat fucker's been doing all day?"

They couldn't possibly guess.

"Lying on the couch with an ice pack on his face while his mom feeds him cookies."

Everybody knew Quil's mother kept a tight hold on his behavior. Or tried to. In particular, she admonished him not to get in fights at school. He had gone home last night with a bloody nose and a black eye—"Nice work," he said to Jacob—and she had seen him tangled up in that brawl in the yard. But did he get in trouble? No. Because he told his mother that he was injured on behalf of Bella.

"He what?"

"He said he was defending Bella's honor, and she said that must have been a very difficult thing to do. She's been baking him cookies all day."

_A very difficult thing to do, indeed!_ Some friend Quil was. And how was _she_ ever going to defend her honor to that woman?

Embry said he would _love_ to know the story behind that comment, and she could only sit there red-faced and frowning. Jacob frowned, too, putting his arm around her and pulling her closer to his side. "It was a misunderstanding," he grumbled. "And anyway, I wish you would tell us—"

"I heard your dad hooked up with his mom," Embry added with a smirk, and she got the feeling that he only said it to make her mad—or to keep Jacob from asking so many questions.

Either way, it made her double over as if her stomach pained her and moan into her knees. "It was twenty years ago."

"Saw them together last night."

This got the twins talking, too. They said that last night they'd sat in the kitchen with Charlie and Joy for half an hour or so, and didn't their names sound nice together? "Charlie and Joy." Sounds nice, they said. They had been eating the birthday cake and looking at one another. Talking about how pretty the snow was, and looking at one another. Bella was sickeningly reminded of how, sitting around the campfire last night, the twins had mistaken her and Jacob for a couple and gushed over how sweet they could be together. They were doing the same thing now.

"So cute!"

"Reunited!"

When Rachel started commenting favorably upon her father's backside, she screeched and picked up a throw pillow from the couch, hurling it with such vehemence that it bounced off of Rachel's head and hit Rebecca as well. Jacob blinked at her.

"Looks like your girl ain't so mousy," said Embry.

"She's not a mouse," said Leah. At the same time Bella said, "I'm not his girl," and Jacob looked so miserable that Embry laughed at him.

Then he added, in a quiet voice, "Not so innocent, either."

The look that he gave her with those words made her uncomfortable. His black eyes met hers with a familiarity she couldn't understand, and she was reminded of the way Paul had looked up at her from the brushpile in her yard yesterday morning, pinning her with the coldness of his stare. Embry's gaze was tempered by another emotion—compassion? despair?—and her vexation about Quil's mom lost its importance, swamped by a sudden, inexplicable sadness welling up inside her. When her eyes watered, Embry looked surprised; he dropped his gaze immediately, as if in remorse, but it was too late.

Jacob had already looked from her to his brother, and his expression hardened.

"I should go." Embry stood up.

No, no, protested everyone else, but he gently peeled Rebecca's hand from his arm and backed toward the door. He kept his eyes on the floor, and the more they called for him to stay, the more uncomfortable he seemed, trembling almost, as he withdrew. "I can't," he said, unbuttoning Harry's shirt and laying it over a chair. "I stayed too long already." And when they cried that he couldn't go out in the rain like that, he set his jaw and turned away.

Jacob followed him to the door, and Bella followed Jacob. Hovering at the corner of the hallway, she was surprised to see him push Embry to the wall. His hands were shaking.

"As far as you're concerned, she is my girl. Don't look at her like that."

"Oh, shit, Jake, no." Embry pulled his hands away and held them between his own, palms pressed together as if in prayer. "I didn't mean anything by it. I didn't mean it." He apologized, said he had been thinking of something else. "Please don't be mad. Please, Jake, it's so important. You can't lose your temper like that."

"You sound like my father."

"Our father."

Embry gave him a sad little smile, and Jacob stepped back. He looked at his hands, no longer shaking, as if mystified by them.

"I didn't want to fight with you. I don't know why—"

"Forget it." Embry reached for Bella. When she came closer and gave him her hand, she was startled by the warmth of his skin. "Sorry," he said. "Really, I should thank you." He squeezed her fingers, giving her that same sad smile. "Your dad's the one who made Billy tell me."

"Charlie?"

"Yeah." Bending to lace up his boots, he asked Jacob, "Have you ever seen _anybody_ tell Billy to piss off? Apparently Charlie Swan can do it." He straightened up and pulled Bella against him in a quick, one-armed hug, whispering, "I guess that makes up for some things." He kissed her hair. Then he pulled open the door and vaulted over the porch railing, sliding through the muddy grass toward the street.

Jacob hurried after him. In the heavy rain, his clothes were soaked almost instantly.

As she stood in the doorway, chilled by the night air, Bella could hear him asking Embry to tell him what was wrong. More than Billy.

Embry stood looking at the ground. Water ran in rivulets over his chest and dripped from his nose and chin.

"I know something's wrong. Sam. You. That fight last night with Paul." Jacob put a hand in his brother's shorn hair, tipped his head up to look him in the face. "Emb," he pleaded. "What happened to you?"

Embry bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut tight. He turned his face up and let the cold rain fall on it. She could see the hard knot of his Adam's apple moving in his throat. At last he put his hands on either side of Jacob's face and pulled him closer, till their foreheads were touching, just as his brother had done last night.

"I can't tell you." Rain poured over his shoulders. "But I'm going to take care of it. I'm going to make it so you never have to know." He pulled Jacob into his arms, held his head tight against his shoulder. "I'm going to take care of you." Then he turned and jogged into the night.

* * *

><p>Charlie called. Time to go. Jacob walked her over to Billy's house, holding the umbrella entirely over Bella and her guitar. It didn't matter about himself, he said; he could get dry again quickly and he didn't want her to sit shivering in the car all the way home. Bella held the guitar close to her body to keep it dry, and Jacob held her free hand, guiding her around the deep puddles in the road. As they walked, she wondered what Embry might have meant when he whispered in her ear. She thought that Jacob must be right. Something was wrong, and neither of them knew what it was.<p>

After Embry left, Rebecca had been upset. She might not see him again for another two years, or longer, and she wanted him to know—

"He knows," said Jacob. "He's always known how you feel."

Even so, she wished he had told them what had happened.

"I don't want to know," said Rachel. She put on her coat, flipping up the rain hood, and hugged Bella. Then she headed out, her hands stuffed into her pockets.

Jacob stood dripping in the hallway until Leah smacked Seth again, and he scurried to find more dry clothes of his father's. After Jake changed, he tossed his wet things into the dryer with Embry's and came back rubbing a towel over his head. He pulled his long, wet hair into a ponytail and flopped onto the couch.

"Spill," said Leah.

"Everything's a mess," he said. Billy wouldn't tell him very much about what had happened. They all knew Embry's mother was Makah, and for years they had believed that his father was, too. That's what Embry thought, and that's what his mother thought. According to Billy, he had thought that, too.

"Then how—"

"Yeah," said Jacob. "Exactly."

Tiffany Call had been running from her boyfriend. An abusive one, Embry had said. But she had been with that guy for a few years. She must have loved him, in a way, for her to put up with that. So why would she suddenly decide one day that she needed to leave? And not just leave him. Why would she want to get so far away that it meant leaving her home, her town, her tribe? And why would she have thought, for all these years, that Billy was _not_ her son's father?

Billy said she had come to the Quileute rez looking for asylum. She had asked him for help, petitioning him as Chief, hoping to gain housing. She thought she would be safe here. Billy said he had taken one look at her and felt shaken, stunned, by an overwhelming need to be near her and protect her.

"Protect her," scoffed Leah. "Should have protected her from himself."

"Was it an affair?" asked Rebecca. "A long time?" She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God, do you think Mom knew?"

Jacob didn't know. Billy had said he hoped not. And he swore it had only happened once.

"Do you believe him?"

Jacob stared at the floor. "Yes. No." His sister got up and came to sit beside him. He put his arms around her and hid his face in her hair. "I don't know what to think."

Walking back to Billy's house, holding the umbrella over Bella, he told her that Billy had shown him a picture in the family photo album, a picture of his father as a young man. It was a forgotten image of a boyhood long gone, but it was similar to the way Embry had come to look in the past few weeks. Billy said this was why he had not known before.

But even the picture didn't explain everything. The grandfather's face was similar, but there was a boyishness to it that Embry's countenance seemed to have lost. If Billy truly had not known before, then why would the relationship suddenly have become apparent?

And what about Embry and his mother? Jacob knew Embry better than anyone. All his life, there had been a hole inside him. His mother told him that his father used to beat her, and still he wanted to meet him, just once. And he felt like shit for wanting that.

Embry had never suspected. That was the only thing Jacob was sure about. And when Billy had told him, when he went running out of the house two nights ago, he had splintered the back door.

In the dark, it was hard to see Jacob's face. He squeezed Bella's hand, and she knew it wasn't just to steer her around the puddles. In the dark, he could tell her what he hadn't been able to say to the others. How he knew that Billy felt terrible. How he loved him and had forgiven him. Last night, however, when he'd climbed onto the hood of Harry's truck and told everyone how proud he was to be his son, he had said that for the tribe. It was the right thing to say. But the truth was that he had never been ashamed of his father before, and it made him sick.

When they reached the shelter of Billy's porch and Jacob could put the umbrella down, she put her guitar down, too, and stepped into his arms. They stood that way for a long time, the rain pouring down around them, the night so black, and somewhere, Embry out running in it.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading. I hope you will review.<em>

_Questions, if you like. Knock yourself out, as James Dean would say._

_1. Seth's Smurfette collection: creepy or cute?_

_2. Jacob getting all handsy with Bella's footsie: Is he respecting her wishes? Did his hand accidentally fall into her sock? Does that count as pushing her? He said he wouldn't push. Does this make him a jerk?_

_3. The mystery has not fully been revealed yet, but at this point, why does it seem that Embry's mother believed his father to NOT be Billy? (Underlying question: Did the way I wrote it come off as intriguing or confusing?)_

_4. Does Billy deserve any sympathy? Why or why not?_

_5. And Embry: you knew what he meant when he whispered in Bella's ear, didn't you? Yeah, I thought you did. Bella is book smart; I'll give her that._

_Thank you again. Previews to reviewers. I hope you liked this chapter, and I appreciate all your feedback. _


	20. Chapter 20 Hope Springs Occasionally

_Portions of this chapter were written on location in Port Angeles, Forks, and La Push. I know! How cool is that? I went to hike in Olympic National Park and checked out the Twilight sites as well. If you have read my profile, you'll know that this was my second trip there. To the ONP, that is. Forks was just shrapnel on the map, really. I accidentally went there. At least, that is what I told my husband._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty<strong>

**Hope Springs Occasionally**

When Bella came down for breakfast on Monday morning, Charlie was eating toast and watching the news in the living room. The banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen showed that somewhere in Pennsylvania, in a town with a name she couldn't pronounce, an important event had occurred. But all she saw was a very ugly little dog standing next to a hole in the ground. And it was wearing a top hat and tails.

"Happy Groundhog Day," said Charlie. "Spring is coming."

"Uh, okay," she said. "Happy spring." She poured herself a bowl of raisin bran and sat down beside him on the couch. It was barely seven in the morning, but on the East Coast it was ten o'clock, and a crowd of people were applauding. The little dog sat up and chewed on its hands with giant buck teeth.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Groundhog Day." He flicked his finger at the TV. "Look, instant replay."

She watched. Some dirt. A hole in the ground. Yep. There they were. And then—oh, look, what's that?—the world's ugliest dog came out of the hole. The crowd cheered. And a man came forward with some pet clothes and dressed the poor thing like Charlie Chaplin. She looked to her father for an explanation.

"It doesn't see its shadow, and that means spring is coming."

"Isn't it coming anyway?"

"Well, yes, but— Oh, just watch the replay."

She could not believe the news crew was going to show this again. Dirt. _Check._ Hole. _Check._ Sad, strange little—

"Whose dog is that?" she asked.

Charlie turned to look at her.

"That one right there. Is it like, the reporter's dog? That's pretty unprofessional to be filming it all the time."

Charlie took the bowl of cereal out of her hands and walked into the kitchen with it, muttering something about Jesus, Renee, and raising her in a desert with lizards. When he came back he shoved her backpack at her. "Go to school."

So she went to school, and she sat through her classes thinking about spring. More sunlight. Warmth. That would be so good; there were some days when she could never push away the chill completely. She thought of clearer skies, the gray of winter brightening to blue.

In English class, Mr. Berty distributed grades for the _Jane Eyre_ presentations everyone had given last week. Bella's group had earned a C minus. Her group mates gave her a sour look as Mr. Berty moved up and down the rows of desks, passing out the papers. She supposed she couldn't blame them; she hadn't helped at all, and she still didn't even know their names, thinking of them only as Curly Red-Haired Guy, Pimply Guy, and Guy Who Wears the Same U-Dub Sweatshirt Every Day. She got the feeling she ended up in their group only because Mr. Berty had made someone include her, and they had been generous, she supposed, in assigning her to hold the poster while they spoke. Remembering that day still felt humiliating. Kind of like waking from a dream to find you've sleepwalked your way to class in your pajamas—only she had awakened from her zombie days to find that she was dragging down the grades of more people than just herself.

Yes, spring and a fresh start would be good. On the board, Mr. Berty was sketching out the requirements for their next group project, a presentation on Bronte's portrayal of love in _Wuthering Heights._

"Love," groaned Pimply Guy.

"Fucking Heathcliff," muttered Sweatshirt Guy.

An eight page essay, said Mr. Berty, and a ten minute talk, and a poster. Last year's posters were still hung up around the classroom; the one closest to Bella's desk was dominated by a poorly rendered window frame done in magic marker with a bug-eyed Cathy pressing her crayoned face against it. Bella knew she could do better than that. She could probably write a really good essay, too. In fact—

"Hey," she whispered to Pimply and Sweatshirt. "I could write the essay."

Sweatshirt quirked an eyebrow at her.

"I could. I've already read that book like, two times."

They turned to Curly.

"Anything I write's gonna get a C again," he said.

And so it was decided. Mr. Berty gave the class some time to brainstorm, and her group mates seemed a little friendlier toward her. Curly, Pimply, and Sweatshirt became Cody, Jim, and Brandon, respectively, and she felt grateful that they were giving her a second chance to be a good partner. Things were getting better at school, and spring was coming. Outside the window, at the edge of the parking lot, a single daffodil was swaying in the rain.

For the most part, the rest of the school day passed quickly. Calculus, lunch, and Physics class sped by, and even Gym was tolerable; Coach Clapp was home sick and Mrs. Cope, the secretary, had taken over, leading them in a visualization and relaxation exercise that amounted to nothing more than lying on the floor and breathing slowly. _Finally,_ thought Bella, _something in Gym class that I'm good at. _

The pleasant progress of the day, however, ground to a halt in her last class, History. There, Bella watched the clock and waited. And waited. _Ugh,_ and _waited_ for it to be over.

Mrs. Kranz sure could talk a lot. The Great Depression, she declared, was a time of national tragedy. The Great Depression was the worst economic recession our country has ever seen. The Great Depression destroyed homes, farms, and families as displaced people wandered in search of work, as the dust storms on the plains tore the slim sprouts of winter wheat out by their shallow roots and blew dirt like needles, stinging the skin, drifting high and brown around the bleached boards of abandoned homes.

_Blah Blah Blah... _ Bella doodled on the knee of her jeans with her blue ballpoint pen.

Pulling down the broad maps from the rollers above her chalkboard, Mrs. Kranz traced the migration of itinerant workers to the Central Valley of California. Bella perked up momentarily when she mentioned John Steinbeck, but grapes were only interesting for a moment. When the teacher moved on to describe canning sardines on Monterey Bay, she sighed and looked around the classroom.

Beside her, Jessica Stanley was listlessly taking notes. Bella supposed this was why she was the valedictorian. Only the most stoic of students could continue listening to this droning. Her purple sparkly pen scratched across the pages of her notebook, smearing glitter in the margins where her hand smudged her words. By leaning a little to the right, Bella could see that the margins were filled with more notes on a different topic. The name "Mike" had been written and crossed out, re-written and re-crossed out, several times.

The maligned Mike was sitting one row behind, and one row across the aisle, from Jessica. It wasn't too hard for him to see the pattern of his ex-girlfriend's thoughts. He bent his head to his own notes with a moroseness that was surely compounded by Mrs. Kranz's riveting slideshow comparing the six-foot roots of native prairie grass to the flimsy roots of wheat. Apparently, planting that stuff on the Great Plains had been a bad idea anyway. Mike took another look at the marginalia in Jessica's notebook and drew a picture of wheat in his own.

Beside Mike and leaning forward in his chair, Tyler Crowley wrote his version of class notes with his finger on the nape of Lauren Mallory's neck. Her bobbed hair swung softly from side to side as she rolled her shoulders, tipped her head slowly left and right. It was as if she was pretending to pretend not to notice. Bella tried not to roll her eyes too overtly, and the teacher blathered on.

The Great Depression made a hole in this country, monetarily, geographically, generationally. The Great Depression tested our strength as a people. Waving her hands in the air, Mrs. Kranz spoke about the resilience of the American spirit and the rebirth of the nation. The girl next to Bella seemed to be asleep, but Angela, sitting in the front row, had clasped her own hands in front of her heart and her eyes were watering.

Striding to to the other side of her desk, Mrs. Kranz praised the red, white and blue flag drooping from a stick bracketed to the wall. She pointed to a portrait of Franklin Roosevelt, describing his Civilian Conservation Corps and spluttering through a list of jobs created, monuments erected, highways paved, parks established, rivers dammed, levees built, swamps drained, timber felled, legions of artists given a livelihood and a purpose, families restored, and little children given food to eat.

"Little children!" she cried. "The children could live!"

Bella rolled her eyes toward the clock again. This class was taking forever.

Mrs. Kranz strode back to the chalkboard and pulled down another map, her freckled bosom swelling with each breath, her faded strawberry blond hair damp at her temples. "Here!" she cried, smacking her hand down across Washington. "Here! What happened to our very own town during the Great Depression?"

No one said anything. Then Eric Yorkie got up and stuck his pencil in the electric sharpener. _Rrrrrr-rrrrr-rrrrr. _

* * *

><p>Later at the diner, Bella and Mike sat pushing waffles around on their plates while Angela scolded them on behalf of Mrs. Kranz.<p>

"But we didn't even do anything," said Mike.

"Exactly!" said Angela.

The result of their collective poor participation in class had been a more rigidly defined Seniors with Seniors project, including specific parameters and hard deadlines for each stage of the assignment. The first segment, a narrative family portrait, was due at the end of the week.

At the rate at which Vera talked, Bella figured her family portrait essay would be nothing more than the verbal equivalent of a stick figure. She stuck her finger in a puddle of maple syrup on her plate and traced a letter V. Slowly, the syrup flowed back into its little puddle, and the initial vanished. Well, she thought, except for this history assignment, things were getting better at school.

The usual crowd kept up a steady hum of voices around the diner, punctuated by occasional clatters from the kitchen. Several of Bella's classmates were slouched in the navy vinyl booths, doing homework, and many of the tables in the center of the room were filled with a mix of touristy hikers and steelhead fishermen. She could recognize the former by their expensive, newish-looking rain gear, and the latter by the damp line that ringed their jeans, just about mid-thigh. Though they had left their hip-waders in their trucks, she could tell the fishermen had worn them earlier in the day by the height of the river's splashing, for below that mark the waders kept them dry. She felt a small degree of pride to have lived in Forks long enough to recognize something that was an element of life here. But her father, she thought wryly, could probably look at each man's watermark and tell what _brand_ of hip-waders he had been wearing.

Charlie himself was having coffee a few tables away. He had made eye contact with Bella when he came in, a hint of a smile hiding in a corner of his mustache, but otherwise he kept his distance. She gave him a little wave and went back to her waffle. When she first had moved here, it felt awkward being the daughter of the town's police chief, but she could tell Charlie did his best to give her some space. She was starting to think that as far as dads went, Charlie was pretty good.

On the other side of the diner, Tyler Crowley sat with Lauren Mallory in one of the dark vinyl booths, his arm draped over her shoulders. He was stealing French fries from her plate while she feigned annoyance and smacked his hand, and his easy smile seemed incongruous to the task Mrs. Kranz had just assigned.

"That douchebag's just going to ask his mom," said Mike.

"I thought he was your friend," said Bella.

"He is. Doesn't make him not a douchebag."

No matter who Tyler's interview partner might be, his mother, Nurse Tisdale, could probably write his assignment for him. And he probably thought she would do it, too. He was laughing, dangling a French fry just out of Lauren's reach.

Bella thought about the sour, black-haired woman who had scolded her for spilling Vera's medicines and chased Lauren with her mop. Last Friday night, Nurse Tisdale had wrestled ten pizza boxes in one hand and staved off the hungry crowd of residents with the other. She was a strong woman with big arms and a loud voice, and even Mr. Horowitz wouldn't talk back to her.

Angela chewed on her fingernail. She looked at Tyler and back at Mike. "You know," she said, "I don't think his mom is the kind of person who would—"

"Like I said," repeated Mike. "Douchebag."

Well, if even Tyler wasn't getting out of this assignment, Bella supposed she would have to make an effort. She was asking Angela about going to the senior home together after school tomorrow when the little bell above the door jingled, and one of Charlie's deputies came in, shaking the rain from his collar.

Steve. That was his name, she remembered. The other one was called Matt Something-or-Other, but this was Deputy Dorsic. She knew him from the times when he'd stopped by the house for dinner. He was younger than her father, maybe in his late twenties, and recently married. Charlie had said he was from a logging family and had grown up here in Forks. Charlie also said that, with Steve's background, he couldn't understand why he had suddenly become spooked about going into the woods. It was making a difficult investigation more difficult.

Signaling the waiter for a cup of coffee, Steve pulled out a chair beside her father and tossed a heavy-looking manila envelope onto the table. She could hear Charlie telling him that it would be better to review the documents at the station, but Steve tapped the envelope with his forefinger and pushed it closer. Frowning, Charlie took a look inside, paging through the papers with his fingertips. He pulled out one sheet that looked like a photocopy of something from the park service; from where she sat, Bella could read the words "Backcountry Registry" and "ONP" across the top. Charlie looked it over, his eyebrows drawn together in dark concentration, and then he cursed and stuffed it back into the envelope.

Steve asked for his coffee to go. He tossed a few bills onto the table and followed Charlie out into the rain. Through the window, Bella saw them start up their cruisers and pull out onto Forks Avenue, rolling north toward the station.

She wondered if that paper had anything to do with the poor hiker who had been found dead in the park last Friday. Charlie had exhorted her and Angela not to go anywhere alone, especially into the forest, and he said that this case was one of the worst he'd ever seen. _Like those animal attacks last spring... _

The memory of what those animal attacks really had been was a memory she wished she could forget.

"Your dad looks stressed out," said Mike.

"Hmm?" she said. "Oh, yeah, um..." She mumbled something non-committal, but she was thinking about Waylon, her father's friend, and the red eyes of James, Victoria, and Laurent. They had been nothing like the Cullens. The way they moved and spoke, their faces hard, unfeeling, chilled her even now. She remembered that day on the baseball field when the three of them emerged from the woods like ghosts, silent and swift, and how they kept their eyes on her, even as Carlisle moved to take control of the situation. And ultimately, even Carlisle couldn't prevent what had happened next. Beneath the table, she rubbed her fingers over the cold, shimmery scar on her hand.

If the menace in the woods was what she feared, a nomad like them, then the town was powerless against it. The other hiker, the one who was still missing, may already have met a terrible end. If she thought too much about it, she'd make herself sick. Charlie would be out there soon with his deputies and the park rangers, combing the trails, and her only comfort was the knowledge that Edward's kind preferred to move—and kill—in secrecy. It would leave a large search party alone. And hopefully, it would move on soon. _Please, please, let my dad be okay..._

Mike and Angela were talking about his partner at the nursing home, a lady Angela knew from volunteering there. Her feet were always cold, and Mike thought maybe he could bring her some of those thick, wool socks that the Outfitters carried. Great idea, said Angela, and while they were talking about that, Bella stared at her waffle and pushed it back and forth through the syrup with an unsteady fork.

She wished she didn't know what might be out there in the forest. Edward's words, that her life would be as if he had never existed, had been proven false over and over again. Not only had he torn out her heart, he had also torn her away from her world by introducing her to his own.

She looked around the diner. Kids doing their math problems. Fishermen having their coffee, talking about bait. Lauren cuddled up with Tyler Crowley, and a frizzy-haired lady in the kitchen slapping plates into a stack. They all seemed separate from her. Even Mike and Angela, sitting right next to her, seemed far away when she thought of the chasm of terrifying, supernatural knowledge that divided her from the rest of humanity. What wouldn't she give to be a regular person again, discussing the warmth of a sock for an old lady?

The door opened, causing the little bell above it to jingle again, and Jessica Stanley came in from the parking lot. She wiped her feet on the mat and hung her brown, quilted jacket on a coat hook, blowing on her fingers to warm them.

"Hey," said Mike. "Jessica." Rising to his feet, he gestured to the seat beside him.

Jessica looked at Mike, and then she looked at Bella. Her face flushed and her eyes narrowed. Then she crossed the room to sit with Tyler and Lauren.

"What's up with you two?" asked Angela.

Mike sank into his seat with a miserable sigh. "Nothing," he said. "Absolutely nothing."

Bella pushed her waffle around on her plate some more. She didn't understand why Jessica was so unfriendly, but she had bigger things to worry about. Like that thing in the woods, and Vera, and why dogs lived underground in Pennsylvania.

* * *

><p>After their snack at the diner, Angela came home with Bella to help wash all the Tupperware boxes she had borrowed from Mrs. Weber to transport Jacob's birthday cake. As Bella opened the lids, a faint, sweet scent of the cake wafted out. She remembered the mixed emotions of that night: her pleasure in spending time with the twins, the way Quil had joked with her and helped her, and the way Jacob had laughed, his eyes bright with joy, as he opened his gifts, surrounded by his friends and family.<p>

It made her feel warm inside, thinking of him sitting there at Billy's dining room table, his face alight, the quick flash of his smile as his eyes sought hers over and over again that evening. She'd been hanging back, shy, and he had been alive and glowing with the thrill of his love for those around him, thriving in their company. It was, she thought, as if he were a sun that soaked up all the happiness he could find and then radiated it tenfold to others. What had she done to deserve a boy like that to shine for her? She couldn't figure it out.

Within the cake boxes, here and there, a smudge of frosting clung to the sides, and that reminded her of the other, darker emotions of that night: her fear when Jacob had turned to her with a look more powerful than friendship, her agony when she thought that he would reject her because she couldn't return that feeling—couldn't even receive it. They'd come to an uneasy truce: silence. She was grateful for it. She knew, in some strange way, that his agreeing to never talk about all of that was in itself a gift borne of his devotion, of his... other feelings. But the gift of silence was the most she could bring herself to accept from him.

She saw the frosting on the side of the cake box, remembered the heat of his tongue on her finger and the frightening pleasure that shot through her body, and she knew that giving in to that kind of madness with Jacob was a precipice from which she could fall very, very hard. Look what had happened with Edward. Her friendship with Jacob just increased the height of that cliff; there was more to lose. She looked at that frosting for a long moment, and then she pushed the box into the hot water in the sink.

Thankfully, Angela's cheery conversation distracted her from her thoughts. She swirled her little blue sponge through the suds with an efficiency that made Bella think she had done this before, probably helping her mother tidy up piles and piles of dishes after church picnics. Bella rinsed and dried the boxes, stacking them up on the kitchen counter.

As they worked, Angela sighed a lot, saying that it was too bad Jessica couldn't see what a great guy Mike was. In her English class that morning, she had heard Jessica and Lauren talking about those college guys they had been seeing in Port Angeles, but Jessica seemed ambivalent about it. And Lauren—

"Wait a minute," said Bella. "Isn't she with Tyler?"

Angela rolled her eyes. "She's with anyone."

_Ew._

Angela was a dreamer. Bella had never noticed it before, partly because Angela was so quiet, and partly because she'd been too wrapped up in Edward to notice much else. But now she saw, watching Angela's eyes sparkle as she talked about how Jess and Mike were "meant to be," that Angela was the kind of girl who believed in love. Like, _believed _in it.

_I will never be that kind of girl again._

The radio on the counter played twangy country tunes from Charlie's favorite station. Country songs seemed a decent reintroduction to listening to music; the songs were usually about some cheating heartbreaker, but the upbeat tempo kept the mood from turning maudlin. Angela stood beside her on the old green rug in front of the sink, and the way her long, dark brown hair swung behind her reminded Bella of how Mrs. Weber's beautiful hair had swayed as she stirred the cake batter on Saturday.

Angela's mother was so nice, thought Bella, more than nice. She was still a little flabbergasted by Mrs. Weber's kindness, by the giving spirit with which she mobilized her family to run four hundred people's worth of cake through the ovens all morning. She had worked a small miracle, on Bella's behalf, for a boy she had never met. What must it be like to have a mother like that? Mrs. Weber was so gentle and generous, and Renee was... well... Renee had left some dish towels for Charlie when she went away. Bella took a few out of a drawer and spread them on the counter beneath the drying boxes.

Sometimes it bothered her that Charlie still used these towels. They were tattered and frayed, faded and stained, and nearly twenty years old. Renee had taken his baby and left him these towels, and really, didn't a caring, hardworking guy like her father deserve a little happiness, or at least some new towels? Then she thought of Mrs. Ateara, who probably had plenty of fresh, new towels in her kitchen, all fluffy and plump and sweet-smelling from her self-lauded laundry skills, and she changed her mind. These old towels were just fine.

Angela handed her another box to rinse, continuing her commentary on Mike and Jessica. According to Angela, Mike had adored Jessica since seventh grade. When they had started dating a couple years ago, Mike was really happy, but shortly after Bella moved to town, Jess started acting weird. They had been on again, off again, ever since.

"It's so sad," said Angela. "I mean, when a guy likes you for so long, when he would do anything for you, that matters, doesn't it?"

"I guess." Bella rinsed the suds from the box and set it on the counter. "I suppose so," she said, but Angela's question made her feel uncomfortable.

Angela held the sponge tightly in her hand, squeezing all the water from it as she gazed out the window over the sink. "I mean, when a guy thinks you're his dream girl, when he tells all his friends how much he likes you..."

Water was rolling from the sponge down the sleeves of Angela's sweater.

"...And when he waits for you to notice him, waits for years and years..."

Bella didn't like where this topic was headed.

"...it really matters. For a valedictorian, Jessica can be really dumb sometimes."

"Or maybe she's just cautious," said Bella. She was frowning at Renee's yellow towels. "Maybe she doesn't want to get burned." _Again._

Laughing, Angela dropped her sponge with a splash. "Are you kidding?" she said. "He's kind of a sure thing."

_Nothing is sure. _She stacked the dried boxes together with a little too much clattering. _Nothing but pain._ "Can we talk about something else?"

"Well, okay," said Angela, but her smile faded, the merriness left her eyes. She looked at the dirty water in the sink. After a long moment, she whispered, "Sometimes I still miss Ben."

_Oh, no, this was worse._ She had known for some time now that Angela was carrying this veiled sadness about Ben's family moving away. And she had known that Angela wanted to talk to someone about it. But oh, lord, she just couldn't be that person. It would hurt too, too much. She felt a sudden pang in her stomach, a dizzying, nauseating hollowness that made her press her trembling hands to the countertop to still them. Angela stopped washing the boxes. She stood looking into the sink with her head hanging low, biting her lip as her face reddened and tears welled up in her eyes. Bella could only stare, frozen with queasy fear.

Fortunately, through the window, Bella saw the headlights of the cruiser swing into the driveway at that moment. "Um," she said. "Um... My dad. Excuse me." And she hurried to the door.

Charlie's feet thumped up the porch steps with the weariness she had come to expect from him these last several days. He gave her a tired smile as she held open the door for him. The cold air swept in behind him. He hung his black uniform parka in the front closet, unbuckled the holster for his side arm, and hung that beside the coat. Toeing out of his boots, he called a greeting to Angela in the kitchen.

Bella could hear a snuffly sound of Angela blowing her nose into a tissue, and then she came into the living room carrying a stack of clean cake boxes, nestled inside one another. She set them down on the couch with an "oof." Bella felt a stab of guilt as she realized that she was glad Angela was leaving; ducking her head, Bella avoided her friend's eyes and slipped into the kitchen again to bring out the rest of the boxes. Angela put on her coat and wound that lumpy magenta scarf she had knitted around her neck, saying that she needed to be getting home for dinner.

"Come with me," she said to Bella. "My mom is making roast chicken."

By the fragility of her expression, Bella could tell that what she really meant, without realizing it, was, "Come with me so I can trap you in my tiny car and pour the lemon juice of listening to _my _heartbreak into the open, festering wound of _your _heartbreak, because who doesn't love that tingly feeling you get when the ulcer that is your ex-boyfriend flares up? Oh, and my mom is making roast chicken."

"I can't," said Bella. "Charlie needs me to, uh, cook something for him."

But Charlie, most unhelpfully, said that he was going out again momentarily to meet his deputies for some paperwork and pizza. Angela turned to her with her watery eyes, and Charlie pushed her toward the door. "Go," he said. "Do something fun with your friend."

_Something fun?! _

Charlie offered to help Angela carry all the cake boxes out to her car, and while they were doing that, Bella returned to the kitchen and took a couple of deep breaths. She wanted to be a good friend to Angela, she really did, but she couldn't imagine how she could possibly listen to... _Wait a minute._ It occurred to her that she knew someone who had been strong enough to listen to her own miserable story. She ran her fingers over the scraps of paper held to the refrigerator by magnets until she found the phone number her father always kept handy. She dialed quickly, glancing out the window to the driveway where Charlie and Angela were trying to fit all of the boxes into the trunk of Angela's little white Corolla.

Seth answered. "Ohhhh..." he breathed. "Bella..."

Her greeting was clipped. "Can I talk to Leah?"

"I was thinking about you..."

_Great. Stop doing that, please. _"I really need to talk to Leah. Fast, okay?"

"Okay..." he sighed, then she heard a soft bump as he set the phone on the counter. "Leah? Where are you?" Dimly, she could hear him wandering away, perhaps down the hall, calling her name. After what seemed an eternity, his sister picked up the phone.

"Leah, hi," she said. "I need some advice." Looking out the window, she could see Charlie leaning over the trunk of the Corolla and rearranging some of the boxes in there. "I've got this friend—"

Leah yawned. "Is it you?"

"Huh?"

"Is it you? Usually these stories that begin with 'I've got this friend' end up being some semi-anonymous question about venereal disease. So let's be honest. It's you, right?"

"No. I've got this friend—"

"My mom's a nurse, you know. You can tell me."

"It's not me. Look, my friend—"

"Fine. Don't tell me. Just go to the doctor and get it checked out."

"Arg!" Hurriedly, Bella explained that yes, she really was talking about a friend, and that she was kind of in a rush because that friend was almost finished fussing over the boxes in her trunk and was surely getting cold out there in the driveway. She could come back at any moment.

"So you really do have another friend?" asked Leah, and from the sound of her voice, Bella was pretty sure that Leah was smirking at her. "Besides me? Besides Jake?"

"Yes! I swear, I do have other friends."

"Besides Seth? He doesn't count."

In the background, she could hear an indignant little "hey."

As quickly as she could, Bella described the situation with Angela and Ben. She said she wanted to be strong for her, but the terrible feelings that washed over her every time she thought about Edward were so—

"Wait," said Leah. "Let me get this straight. You can't help your friend because your _tummy_ hurts?"

"Well, I—"

"And you want to know what you should do? Christ, is this why you called me? I thought you wanted to hang out or something. Or maybe see how I'm doing. Like, 'Hi, Leah, you told me your most personal secrets yesterday and I told you mine, and I know you're stuck at home with two painfully broken feet and a weird-ass, Justin Timberlake-liking little brother—'"

"Hey," bleated Seth.

"'—and I thought I'd call to cheer you up.' That's _not_ why you called?"

"Oh, sorry. It's just that my friend is outside, and I don't know what to do—"

"Don't know what to do," repeated Leah flatly.

"Yes. What should I—"

"Man up," said Leah. Then she hung up the phone.

_Well, shit... zoo... puppies. _That didn't go the way she had hoped.

A dull thud out in the driveway told her that Charlie had closed the lid of Angela's trunk. Looking out the window once more, she could see her father gesturing to her to come outside. Angela stood beside the driver's door, holding her keys and staring up at Bella with big, weepy eyes.

She took a couple more deep breaths. _Man up. Woman up? Whatever. I just hope I don't throw up._ In the living room, she donned her red coat and opened the front door. The chilly air cooled the perspiration on her brow. She descended the porch steps carefully, left foot, right foot, one step at a time. She gave Angela a shaky smile. Then she slid into the passenger seat of the Corolla and buckled up for what was sure to be a bumpy ride.

Charlie shut the door for her, and the thump of it closing sounded like she imagined the door of Juliet's tomb would have sounded. Would she ever emerge from this car alive? Or would she be compelled to spear herself on the parking brake when she awakened to find that her heart had been killed by Angela's tale? Wait, could she awaken if her heart was killed? And where was Romeo in this scenario? _Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art I in this car?_

Her heart began to pound. Angela was backing out of the driveway. _But soft, what light through yonder windshield breaks? It is the streetlamp, and Angela is the sun. _She clutched the armrest in her right hand. _No, Angela is a meteor hurling toward the earth, and I am a dinosaur chewing on a tree. _She was having trouble breathing; her head felt thick and woozy. _Goodnight, sweet brontosaurus, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. —Wait, that's Hamlet._

Oh, she felt ill, visions of the highlighted pages of textbooks blurring into a whirling kaleidoscope of neon pink and orange, gangrenous green and bile-bright yellow, and her head spun with the heartbreak of Angela and Ben, herself and Edward, Leah and Sam. Angela was sniffling, talking about how Ben didn't call her anymore, didn't email her, and the best Bella could do was to fight through the dizziness to reach out with her left hand and place it on Angela's shoulder. The wet streets of Forks rolled past. Rain lashed the windows, but she didn't see it because she was blinded by the blazing apocalypse of the Globe Theatre's thatched roof going up in flames and William Shakespeare running through the streets of London crying, "A hose! A hose! My kingdom for a hose!" and then they were parked in Angela's driveway and she was hugging her.

"Thanks for listening," said Angela.

Bella blinked. "Any time."

"I'm glad we're friends."

"Uh, me, too."

Angela turned off the windshield wipers and the headlights. _That wasn't so bad, _thought Bella. _I did a good job._ Then her stomach rolled again, not with fear and sadness, but with remorse. She had not done a good job. She hadn't heard anything Angela had said, really. She was a terrible friend.

"Let's go see if dinner's ready," said Angela, reaching for the door handle, but Bella laid a hand on her arm.

"Wait," she said. She swallowed hard against the knot in her throat. "Could you tell me again? About when he moved away?" She took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Angela turned to her with her brown eyes over-brimming with thankfulness and laid her head on Bella's shoulder.

* * *

><p>The chicken was good, roasted with potatoes, carrots, and rosemary. Reverend Weber paused for a moment of grace and then carved the bird with a casual skill, slicing the breast meat generously and laying it on the plates of his wife, his daughter, and his daughter's friend in such a genial manner that it made Bella think of a Norman Rockwell painting, right up until the time when the twin boys each grabbed a drumstick in a greasy fist and yanked them from the bird's carcass while kicking one another under the table. The chicken bounced off of the platter and onto the tablecloth, and Reverend Weber called them imps from Hell. Except for that, the dinner was like a Norman Rockwell painting.<p>

After dinner, Mrs. Weber asked Bella to come upstairs with her while Angela and her brothers washed the dishes. Bella followed her up the steps and down a gleaming, hardwood floored hallway to her bedroom, where she knelt to pull a small cedar chest from a shelf in the closet.

Such a beautiful room. Curtains of white eyelet softened the angles of the windows; a mirrored tray upon the bureau held cut glass bottles of rosewater and fresh lilies of the valley. The walls were painted a pale, silvery gray, like the wing of a dove, and the deep reds and browns of the carved wooden furniture were burnished to a shine with what must have been years of care and a dust cloth sprinkled with lemon oil. Bella knew about housework; she had kept Renee's house, and now Charlie's, spotless with attentive industry. She knew about housework, and she could tell that this room, like the rest of the home, had been tended not just with duty, but with love. She also knew that quilt pattern on the bed.

It was much like her own. Triangles and squares had been sewn together to form stars with a cheery blend of pinks, blues, and greens, in a mix of florals and plaids. The stitches of white thread that quilted the stars were a little uneven, but familiar. She ran her hand over the puckers in the fabric.

"Helen made it for us," said Mrs. Weber.

"My grandma?"

She nodded, still bent over the cedar chest, sorting through the letters and postcards stored within. "John and I had been married only a few months when he got his calling to the church here. I didn't know a soul in town, didn't know how to boil an egg, much less cook for a congregation. Helen kind of adopted me." Her slender fingers riffled through the papers. "She taught me to bake bread. Stayed up many nights with me in that kitchen, running loaves through the ovens before the holidays. I was just twenty-two; we had moved here from Wisconsin and I missed my mother so much that I— Well, I don't know what I would have done without Helen."

She stood, brushing off her skirt and pushing her long hair behind her shoulders. In her hands, she held a faded photograph. She sat down on the edge of the bed, motioning for Bella to sit beside her, and as Bella took the photograph in her hands, Mrs. Weber put an arm around her shoulders.

In the photo, a small, gray-haired woman sat on the steps of the chancel in the Webers' church. A dozen or so children were gathered around her. Upon her lap, she held a brown guitar.

"The children loved her," said Mrs. Weber. "I loved her, too. She had a big heart."

Bella had always believed that she'd gotten her eyes from Charlie. A deep brown, a little too large, perhaps, and quick to flash with emotion. Here she saw that those eyes had come from her grandmother. She looked into her face as she might have looked into a mirror, and in the photograph, her grandmother's face was bright with joy. Bella could hardly recognize the expression; it seemed remote and achingly impossible, but there it was, on a face so like her own. She had never imagined herself looking that way.

Mrs. Weber took the photograph and set it on the quilt; then she took Bella's hands in her own. "Angela says you've been sad a lot. She has, too, and I'm glad that she has you for a friend. I think that, like Helen, you have a big heart. And sometimes that means it hurts big."

Bella could feel her face growing hot; her eyes watered and she tried to take back her hands, but Angela's mother did not let go.

"A heart like hers, like yours, can love big, too. Don't forget that."

Bella nodded. She kept her head down to hide the tears, but Angela's mother knew anyway. She pulled Bella into her arms, and for the first time, Bella knew what it was like to have a mother hold her as she wept.

* * *

><p>Charlie was reading the newspaper when she came home carrying a small bouquet of yellow daffodils. When she had seen one that morning through the classroom window, quivering in the wind at the edge of the parking lot, she had thought that spring was barely beginning. But in the Webers' backyard, spring was already in bloom. As Bella came downstairs with Mrs. Weber, Angela was coming in the back door, her cheeks pink with the cold and her hair sparkling with tiny drops of rain. "I picked these for you," she said, pressing the flowers into Bella's hands.<p>

Her father wasn't the kind of guy who kept vases around the house, so Bella put them into a Mason jar with some water and carried them up to her room. She set them on her bedside table, along with the photograph of her grandmother that she'd been given. Then she smoothed her hand over the quilt on her bed. Here and there, she found an uneven seam or a knot in the thread, but it didn't matter. The hand that erred had still stitched the stars together.

She put on her pajamas and stuck her nose in the daffodils. They smelled sweet. She was about to turn off the light when she noticed an unfamiliar book on her desk. The words on the spine read _Encyclopedia of North American Mammals, Volume Four, F through H._

"What this?" she called down to Charlie. She stood at the top of the stairs, holding the book in her hands.

"I stopped by the library on my lunch hour," he said. "And I marked a few pages for you."

Bella carried the book back into her bedroom and sat down at her desk. She found the pages Charlie had marked with a scrap of paper.

"_The groundhog,"_ she read, "_otherwise known as a woodchuck, is a type of marmot. It is characterized by large incisors necessary for gnawing on roots... Thick, brown fur... Herbivorous rodent... Burrowing behavior... Popular folklore ascribes weather forecasting abilities..." _ There was also a photo of said rodent sitting up on its hind legs in a grassy field.

"Dad!" she called, hurrying back to the top of the stairs. "The groundhog looks just like that little dog we saw on TV this morning!"

She heard the creak of his recliner as he folded in the footrest and stood up. He walked into the kitchen, and as he passed by the staircase she saw him press his fingers to the bridge of his nose. She heard him opening the refrigerator and popping open a can of Rainier. Then he returned to the foot of the stairs and stood looking up at her.

Flipping through the pages of the book, she found the photo again and spun it around for him to see. "Look," she said. "It looks just the same."

He took a sip of his beer. He looked at the photo and then at her.

She stood there holding the book for a long moment, waiting for him to acknowledge the likeness. But all he said was, "Go to bed, Bella."

So she did. She snuggled under her grandmother's quilt and dreamed of daffodils and waffles with friends, fresh green grass and the soft hands of Angela's mother, and a small, buck-toothed dog in a tuxedo who heralded the coming of spring.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading. All your comments, long or short, help me write this story, so I hope you'll tell me which parts you liked. I really appreciate it.<em>

_If you want, here are some questions whose answers would help me._

1. _Why does it seem like Jessica has rejected Mike? (Did I sufficiently hint at a reason? Quality control here, guys... Your feedback about the Embry mystery helped me see some improvements I can make.)_

2. _Does it seem like any of Bella's thoughts/attitudes (about Jake, school, her father, her friends, herself) have changed in this chapter? If so, how? _

3. _Can a reader like a character who is kind of dumb? Bella can be a dope about more things than just groundhogs. How do you think she is foolish, and how does this influence your opinion of her? _

_Thank you again! And happy spring._

_P.S. People ask me, "Geez, Amandaforks, are Jake and Bella ever going to get together?" And I say YES. It's going to be so great. Just have patience. I'm working on my master-pizza, as Artist Smurf would say._

_OH, HEY! NEWS! ** My story has been nominated for "BEST HUMOR" and "BEST ROMANCE" in The Non-Canon Awards. **Voting takes place April 2-10 (Australian dates). Could you all please go to this site and vote for my story? Thank you very much! Go to thenon-canonawards . blog spot dot com p/nominees . html (remove spaces after copy n pasting to browser). Also, it was nominated for **best quote**: Quil saying to Bella in Chapter 17, "Don't worry. Nobody loves you." I would be honored if you all could vote for my story. Thanks again._

_Or just google "The Non-Canon Awards" and you will find it more easily than removing all those spaces in the URL up there!_


	21. Chapter 21 The Sock

_Author's Note: Special thanks to Jane and Alex, guest reviewers. If you are able to sign in when you review, I can send you a note. I do appreciate your comments!_

_Contest Update: We did not win the contest, but that's okay. I still think it's a great story, and I hope you do, too. Thank you all for voting! And the true win, I think, is that being in the contest helped some new readers to notice the story, for which I am very thankful._

_As promised, Bella writes a song here. Pardon the weird section breaks; I had to do it to separate the verses. I hope you enjoy this chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-One<strong>

**"The Sock"**

_Ouch, ouch ouch, ouch, ouch!_ Bella peeled the bandage away from the road rash on the back of her thigh and set her foot on the edge of the bathroom sink. Bending sideways, she risked a glance at the wound in a little handheld mirror. Still red. Still sticky. Still kind of slick, a clear discharge seeping from her skin, or from the place where her skin had been, like a glaze of quince jelly over a slab of raw salmon. Except more revolting. The outer edges of the wound, however, were beginning to look pink and healthy again. That was good. After nearly a week, it ought to be getting better.

She reached for a fresh bandage and an aerosol can of antiseptic spray. It felt cold in her hand as she rattled the weight inside. She wished she didn't have to do this, but Leah, who never seemed to tire of reminding her that her mother was a nurse, had stressed the importance of using this stuff. So she set her foot up on the sink again, reached around the back of her leg, and depressed the button on the spray nozzle.

"Holy Fucking Whore-Mother of Christ!"

_I mean, Gee, that stings._

Bandaged up again, she crossed the hall to her room and surveyed the floor. She hadn't been able to find her red Chucks this morning before school and had had to wear the black ballet flats she had worn to Phil and Renee's wedding. Angela, who was partial to such shoes, said they looked cute with her jeans, but she hadn't Angela's grace for avoiding puddles. By the time she made it from her truck in the parking lot to her first period Spanish class, they were soaked and cold, and they remained that way for the rest of the day. Now she put on a pair of dry socks and started kicking through the dirty clothes on the floor. Angela would be coming over soon so they could go to Olympic Acres for dinner with the old ladies, and she didn't want to wear those wet ballet flats anymore.

Normally her room wasn't this messy. But between Jake's birthday party and her father-enforced lockdown with Leah, she hadn't spent any time on the weekend keeping things neat. She replaced a few books on her bookcase and straightened the papers scattered across her desk. Then she continued kicking through her clothes until she had created a heap of laundry to take downstairs.

Jeans, socks, bras, undies, and T-shirts. Pajama pants and tank tops. A sweatshirt. The new, clingy white sweater she had worn to the party on Saturday, and the pink one she had worn on Sunday. That hideous denim tent of a skirt she had worn last Friday when her leg was too sore to put on pants, and atop all those things, a pile of plaid from the ubiquitous flannel shirts that populated her closet. She slid over the hardwood in her socks, sweeping more underwear from beneath her bed.

Hopefully, Vera would talk to her today. With Mrs. Kranz's new requirements, she had to turn in something by the end of the week. All she knew of Vera's family so far was that her father's store had gone bankrupt in the Depression, and once, she had a fiancé who jilted her. Bella wondered whom she had eventually married. There were many pictures of grandchildren on the walls of the room she shared with Albertine. Maybe she could get Vera talking by asking about them.

She found one of her Chucks beneath her desk and wiggled her foot into it. The other one was wedged under the bookcase. On her knees, she tugged at it until it came loose, and it was there, as she was sitting on the floor tying her shoe onto her foot, that she saw it.

It.

The sock.

No, make that The Sock.

It, too, had been hiding under the bookcase since that Sunday afternoon at Leah's house. With a pen, she fished it out and held it up to look at it. Poor sock. It had been stretched so far out of shape that it could never be worn again. She blushed as she remembered the feeling of Jacob's big hand pressing inside. The sock hung limply from her pen, a flaccid white bag, all that remained of their secret, unplanned encounter under the coffee table.

She really ought to throw it away. It was kind of yucky now.

A quiet knocking on the door downstairs told her that Angela had arrived. She swirled her coat around her shoulders and slid her arms through the sleeves. Then she stood there, holding the sock—_The Sock—_over the little waste can beside her desk that was filled with crumpled paper and pencil shavings, but she couldn't let go. Nor could she say why. Angela knocked on the door again.

"I'm coming!" she hollered. "Just a minute!" Balling the sock in her fist, she scooped the dirty laundry into her arms. There was no way she could descend the steps with such a bundle and not break her neck, so she flung it as far as she could and clambered after it, kicking the stragglers into the living room. She waved to Angela as she gathered it all up again and hurried to the back porch, where she stuffed everything into the washing machine with a cupful of detergent and dropped the lid with a bang.

Angela gave her a smile when at last she opened the door. The sun was fading, leaving the evening sky an odd mix of orange and Forks' usual gray, and the air was growing chill. Bella buttoned her coat and settled into the passenger seat of the Corolla. As they were backing out of the driveway, Angela turned to her with a curious glance.

"What's that?"

Bella looked down to realize she still had the sock clutched in her hand. "Oh," she said, stuffing it into her coat pocket, "nothing. It's nothing." But a part of her knew, as she patted the pocket closed above it, that it was _something._

* * *

><p>The dinner hour was in full swing when the girls arrived at the nursing home. They followed a crowd of residents to the dining room, where the air buzzed with conversation and the clink and clatter of cutlery on the china. A buffet table of Salisbury steak, rice, steamed vegetables, and dessert stood along one wall.<p>

Angela spotted Albertine dining with Mr. Horowitz at one of the smaller tables. When the girls joined them, she said that Vera was lying down in their room, and Bella sank into her chair with a sigh. Interviewing a partner who was "a little shy," as Albertine had phrased it, was not nearly so difficult as interviewing one who was "indisposed." But Albertine said she would help.

She enjoyed describing her own family. She and her husband Donald, who had passed away a few years ago, had five children, all boys. Donald had worked in the timber industry, and all of their sons had grown up to assume that same profession, except for the youngest, who became a commercial fisherman. "But he was always an odd duck," she said.

Bella didn't think that sounded too odd. Even today, most Forksians were employed in those industries. She munched on her broccoli as Albertine talked about her grandchildren. She had eleven of them. Most were in college now, and not one of them wanted to work as a logger or a fisherman. They would likely move away in search of other careers. Albertine loved them all, but sometimes she feared they did not appreciate their roots. And that was why she loved Mrs. Kranz's assignment.

"It's so important for the young people to learn about—" She stopped and looked at Mr. Horowitz. "Where's your partner? Didn't you tell her to meet you in your room?"

"Why do you think I'm here?" he said, his whiskery chin wrinkling with a sour smile. "But don't worry. I left her a note. Telling her to meet me in the garden."

"You bad thing, you," said Albertine.

Bella asked about Vera's family. She remembered counting eleven kids' photos on the wall of their room, and it seemed now that none of Vera's grandchildren were pictured there. Where were they?

"Well, she doesn't have any," said Albertine. "She never married."

How sad, said Angela, but Albertine said she understood. After her fiancé left, Vera had never loved anyone else.

The Depression had hit the Moss family hard, but during the gray, rainy spring of 1936, the happy expectation of Vera's wedding in June sustained their spirits. And though he would never have admitted it, Albertine was sure that after the loss of the store, Vera's father hoped her fiancé's wealthy family would sustain them in a more practical way after the marriage. He adored Vera, and why else would he have allowed his daughter to become engaged at sixteen? Times were terrible. Vera had a baby brother who was always hungry and thin. Albertine remembered holding him on her lap, and he felt almost weightless. Mrs. Moss had gone gray with worry over that baby. And Vera's older brother Bertram had been compelled to drop out of high school, just weeks before graduation, and go to work in the lumber camps.

"The family was just barely hanging on. But Vera was so happy. We made her dress together." Satin gowns were fashionable, but no one they knew could afford such a thing, so they had altered Vera's mother's gown. Albertine remembered spreading the fabric on the dining room table as she and Vera stitched the lace.

It was on the morning of the wedding when the Moss family received two messages of devastating news. Her fiancé had left town. And word came from the lumber camps of an accident.

Mr. Horowitz tossed his fork onto his plate. "It was no accident."

"You've been saying that for seventy years," said Albertine. "And it's not getting any truer."

"You weren't there! You didn't— Shit, it's that girl."

_Huh?_ At first Bella couldn't figure out why he had pushed his chair away from the table so quickly and spun the wheels around. He sped through the crowded tables and turned a corner into a hallway. Then she saw the answer: Lauren was approaching their table. Her hair had been frizzed to an ironic halo by the wind.

"If I fail this assignment, you're the ones who'll be sorry."

Bella, Angela, and Albertine sat looking up at her. Or rather, Bella looked at her. She could feel herself becoming sweaty, and it was hard not to drop her gaze from Lauren's pale blue glare. But Angela was unaffected. She, Bella realized, was blandly studying the air just to the left of Lauren's head. After a bit more glaring, Lauren left.

_Just ignore her_, she remembered Angela saying. _That's what I do._

"Impressive," said Bella. "That's some hard-core ignoring."

"Albertine taught me."

"Worked really well on Donald," said the old lady.

Bella would have asked about the accident then, but Albertine shushed her, saying that Vera didn't like to talk about it. She looked up to see the tiny woman shuffling toward them, wearing an old pink bathrobe, slippers, and a mauve knitted cap. Angela rose to fill a dinner plate for her from the buffet as Albertine helped her into a chair.

"Are you warm enough, sweetie?" asked Albertine.

Vera made a raspy humming noise in the back of her throat.

"She's always cold," explained Albertine, passing the plate Angela had brought. "You need to eat more, honey. Try the rice. Just a little bit."

Vera lifted a spoon in her gnarled hand, the hard knobs of her knuckles curling like white stones beneath transparently fragile skin. She sat looking at the rice for a long time, until her milky eyes watered, but she wouldn't eat.

The wind was blowing hard when the girls walked out to the parking lot. Bella clutched the lapels of her coat close about her neck, ducking her head against the gale. It occurred to her that a logging accident might have been written about in the newspaper. Maybe she could learn more about Vera's family by going to the library, she said, and looking through back issues of the _Forks Forum._

"No," said Angela, unlocking her car. "They grew up in Hoquiam."

Well, there went her grade. That was two whole hours away. And how fitting that Edward and Vera should have had the same hometown. She could just imagine the welcome sign at the city limits: "Hoquiam: Source of Failure, Both Romantically and Scholastically." Maybe with some seagulls flying across one corner of the sign; that would look fantastic. She slumped in her seat, raking her fingers through her tangled hair.

"Where's your hat?" said Angela. "That nice red one that matches your coat?"

Mike had asked her the same thing, and she told Angela the same lie. "I lost it." A burnt hat didn't seem to matter much compared to this doomed assignment.

* * *

><p>In the stockroom of Newton's Outfitters on Wednesday, spring shipments of the soft lines had arrived. Bella was tasked with opening boxes of waterproof rain pants, hiking shorts, windbreakers, raincoats, and sun hats, which were wide-brimmed and made of UV ray-blocking fabric. What a person in Forks might do with a sun hat, she didn't know.<p>

Mrs. Newton had given her a box cutter, a short handled tool with a triangular-shaped portion of a razor blade protruding from one end. She might as well have given her a ticket to the hospital. Though it was an awkward grip, she held the box cutter in both hands and very, very slowly sliced through the sealing tape of each box. Then she counted the items and verified the numbers against the packing slips. Anyone else might have found the work dull, but each time Bella picked up the box cutter, she thought her job was dangerous. And doubly so, for her mind was on other matters. Other wonderful, miraculous matters.

She had stayed after school to talk to Mrs. Kranz about the problem with Vera, and to her surprise, she had received permission to skip class tomorrow, allowing her the time she needed to make it to the library in Hoquiam and back. And what was more, she had given her hope of going to college after all.

Like most teachers, Mrs. Kranz had witnessed the effects of her break up with Edward. She had been calling Charlie weekly all through the fall, just as Billy had said, asking about her health. And she had been waiting for Bella to recover enough to care about her grades again so that she could recommend her for a scholarship.

"Me?" Bella had said. Her grades in every class had been sinking, her SAT scores from October were abysmal, and she had missed all the application deadlines. But Mrs. Kranz said there was a college in Olympia, a small one, that would consider more factors than just a GPA in deciding admission. And it wasn't too late to apply there. Bella had to blink back tears, right there in the classroom as other students shouted and ran through the halls after the final bell.

"You have a talent. Almost anybody can memorize historical facts. And lots of people like to read and write about literature. But you can also write well about _history_, and that's special." Mrs. Kranz had given her a tissue and a smile and shooed her out of the classroom.

Now she sat on the cold, concrete floor, her head swirling with a dizzy revision of her imagined self. Could she actually be good at something beside cooking and keeping things really, really clean? The cardboard boxes blurred beneath her eyes, and her fingers trembled on the handle of the box cutter.

Mike said he was happy for her. "Of course you're good at that. One of your essays is stuck on Kranz's bulletin board; didn't you see it, dummy?" He was sitting with her in the stockroom, sorting through clearance bins. Every so often, his mother would call him to the sales floor to help a customer, but for the most part he stayed chatting with Bella and digging through last season's odds and ends: ski boots and scarves, sunglasses and snow pants, thermal underwear and wool caps. He said Evergreen State was a good school; he and Angela had both applied there. "And it's close enough to drive home on the weekends."

_Even better_, thought Bella. _Home._ She was starting to feel like she belonged here, just as Rachel had said.

After a hour or so of searching, Mike sat back on his heels and sighed. "I can't find any left." He got up and strode through the stockroom curtain.

She could hear him asking his mother for the vendors' catalogues for the winter lines. There was some disagreement about why he wanted them. "Calling the supplier for just _one _of those?" Mrs. Newton said. "Business basics, Mikey. Look at the cost to selling point ratio. Plus shipping."

"It's not to sell."

"Not to sell? Not to sell?" This triggered a lecture on the nature of running a retail establishment and the mortification certain parents were suffering at the prospect of their sole progeny's undoing their work to make solvent said retail establishment. "You buy in bulk. Wholesale." Bella could hear a sharp _ching _as Mrs. Newton slapped the cash register drawer shut. "Why is this so hard for you to understand?"

"Take it out of my paycheck," he grumbled.

Coming back through the curtain, he tossed the catalogues on the desk where his father managed the accounts and flipped through the pages, his blond head bent, his fair skin flushed. Arguments always made Bella uncomfortable, and she kept her head down, drawing the box cutter carefully across the cardboard. When Mike lifted the telephone, he had to explain—more than once—to the person on the other end of the line that he only wanted to order a single item. He recited the ten digit SKU number, running a hand through his hair.

"Yes," he said again. "Just one. A red one."

Hanging up the phone, he rolled his chair back from the desk with a lopsided smile. "Sorry about that. My mom—"

"No," she said. "I get it. My mom's kind of... Well..."

He laughed then, a tired sort of laugh, and she thought it was funny how often she had wished for a normal mother. It was kind of like wishing for your heart not to be broken. _Not the only one..._

And with that revelation, she sliced her finger open.

Mike ran for the first aid kit while she tried to keep from bleeding on the new spring sports bras. When he called to her, she staggered after him to the employee break room where he helped her wash the cut.

"It's not so bad," he said, running her finger under cool water from the tap. "Just don't tell my mom, or she'll freak out about worker's compensation."

"Ha ha," she said. "That's a good one. Wait, what's that?"

"Hold still. I just need to hit it with this antiseptic spray."

* * *

><p>Driving home in her truck, Bella rubbed at the goose egg swelling up on her forehead. It was getting hard to tally her injuries. There was, of course, that monstrous, festering patch on the back of her leg from her second motorcycle crash, and from her first, there were the nine stitches Dr. Gerandy had sewn across her forehead. For the most part, she could hide the bandage over those stitches by brushing her hair to the side, but the new wad of cotton wrapped around her left index finger was more conspicuous. She frowned at it resting atop the steering wheel. Mike had insisted that several patches of gauze were necessary to staunch the blood flow, and then he had chivalrously bound them together with what must have been yards and yards of white tape. It looked as if she had a giant Q-tip strapped to her hand. Charlie was probably going to notice that. And surely <em>everyone<em> she met for the next several days would notice the big black and blue lump above her right eye where she had bashed into the break room door. Antiseptic spray should probably not be administered, she thought, in places that have doors to impede escape. But at least that door had kept Mrs. Newton from hearing her sentiments about certain first aid products.

"Damn, Bella," said Mike when he picked her up from the floor. "I didn't think you knew any words like that."

Oh, she knew them. She just didn't want to say them. Would Jane Austen have said such things? Perish the thought. Lady Catherine de Bourgh would have thrown her from the drawing room.

Charlie was setting plates and silverware on the table when she came in. He had made breakfast-for-supper, one of his specialties. It wasn't quite up to Bella's standards, but it was far better than Renee's oops-I-forgot specialty. She dug into her eggs and bacon gratefully, and after their usual post-injury conversation ("How the hell did this happen, Bells? Again?"), he asked about her day.

As she told him what Mrs. Kranz had said, she watched his face change, paler at first as he set down his fork, and then pinker and pinker, his smile widening until she was sure it matched her own. He said he was proud of her, so proud, and he got up and scooped her an enormous bowl of chocolate ice cream.

"I haven't eaten my dinner!" she said.

He told her that he and Renee had been terribly worried over the matter of college. They had decided not to mention it, not to pressure her, given her state of mind last fall. But it had pained them to watch her opportunities pass, and Mrs. Kranz's news was a joy and a relief.

"Now I know why she's been calling me. I just thought she was a caring teacher."

"I think she does care," said Bella. I think she's kind of..." Here she had to pause, for she had never paid much attention to her teachers' attitudes, figuring that they didn't think much of her, either. This was different. Hard to describe. "Hmm," she said, mulling over a spoonful of ice cream. "I guess she's kind of nice."

"Kind of nice?" said Charlie. "Shit, Bells, I'm going to send her a crate of apples."

That made her roll her eyes. Only in Washington would apples be sent in lieu of flowers.

Charlie was less thrilled to hear about her plans for research in Hoquiam. It was too long a drive to make on a school night, and too long a drive to make alone. He reminded her of the investigation surrounding those hikers, one dead, one missing.

Bella thought that if there were a vampire in the woods who wanted to keep her from completing her homework, then she'd have to serve detention in heaven. She didn't say that, of course. Instead she reminded him that the teacher recommending her for a scholarship was the one who would be grading this essay.

"Well, all right," he said. "But I want you to take a friend with you."

"How about Angela?"

"How about Jacob?" Charlie dipped a corner of his toast in an egg yolk. "Perfect road buddy. Big, tall, tough-looking. And that kid won't let you out of his sight for a minute."

_Charlie noticed that?_ There were certain downsides to having a cop for a father. "He smiles too much to be really tough-looking," she grumbled, but she said she would call him.

After dinner Charlie left to relieve the deputies on night patrol, saying he'd be back before breakfast. Bella washed up and worked on her homework at the kitchen table. Spanish was getting a little easier, now that she was putting in some effort. _Yo hablo a mi estomago, _she thought. _Tengo un dolor del baño. _Yes, she was sure her Spanish was improving. When she was finished with that, she dialed the Blacks' number.

The phone rang for a long time. Jacob answered just as she was about to give up, saying that Billy was out with Harry, and he had been in the garage. Usually he couldn't hear the phone out there, but for some reason his hearing had sharpened recently.

"Huh," she said. "Lucky you."

The Clearwaters had given him a gift certificate to the auto parts store in Hoquiam for his birthday, and he said he'd been dying to get down there. Maybe they could have dinner together, he suggested, and if she got tired, he'd be happy to drive them back. Bella hopped up onto the kitchen counter, letting her heels swing and thump softly on the cupboards. She liked to hear the rumble of his voice, the way he talked to her slow and quiet, even when Billy wasn't listening, and she could picture the way he cradled the phone against his shoulder. Just as she was doing, she figured. "Where are you sitting?" she found herself asking. It was a silly impulse, and for a moment she wished she could take it back. But he didn't laugh at her. He said he was up on his kitchen counter, leaning against the side of the fridge, with his feet up on the windowsill.

"Don't tell Billy," he whispered. "And where are _you_ sitting?"

_Why did it sound dirty when he said it like that?_ "Nowhere," she mumbled, her cheeks growing hot.

"Nowhere?" She could tell he was smiling. "You've got to be sitting _somewhere._ Wait, are you standing?"

"Yes."

"No, you're not."

She hopped down from the counter. "I am."

"Hmm..." he said, and that sound in his throat, the certainty she had that he was closing his eyes, made her blush more. She was seeing his thick, black lashes lowered upon his cheek. "Okay," he said, "you're standing now, but you're not wearing any shoes."

She looked down at her socks, sliding one foot back and forth over the linoleum. "How do you know this stuff?"

"Because I know you."

What could she say to that? Pressing the phone tighter to her ear, she dropped her head and swayed forward, leaning her forehead against the cupboard and biting her lip. This wasn't the first phone call where she was glad he couldn't see her.

He asked about Charlie. When she told him about the night shift, he said, "Seven to seven? That's a shift and a half." She hadn't realized that. "He's going to be so hungry," said Jacob.

Well, that hadn't occurred to her, either. _Man up, _she could imagine Leah saying. She flipped through a cookbook until she found a recipe for raisin muffins. Jacob stayed on the phone with her while she banged around in the cupboards. She had to tell him to hang on, though, and set the receiver on the counter when she took the eggs from the refrigerator. Best to do that with two hands and no phone cord coiling around her ankles.

He said he wished he'd gotten the Rabbit running by now. He'd love to come over and help her, sit with her while the muffins baked. She promised she'd save him one. "Four," he said, "I want four." And he did help her, in a way. He did sit with her; it must have been an hour or so that they talked about everything and nothing, until she was lifting the tray out of the oven and turning the muffins out to cool on her baking rack. Best friends, she thought. It felt so comfortable and easy.

When she told him about her schedule for tomorrow, though, that easy feeling turned to disappointment. "My teacher's letting me out early. I need to leave Forks at two, so if I came and got you at one-thirty—"

"Oh, Bells," he said, "I can't. I can't skip school."

Her hands stilled in the sink, the tin she was washing filling with water and slipping beneath the suds. "But the library closes at five."

"I can't," he repeated, and she slid down the cupboard until she was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up and her elbows folded across them. The warm scent of bran and butter was cooling in the air.

She could hear the regret in his voice. And the frustration. Being Billy's son meant more than a party, a position, an intended purpose for his adulthood. It meant being an example. A chief's son could not cut class. Couldn't blow off homework, or flunk a test, or tell somebody off, or get in fights.

"Why do you think I held off on Paul so long? If he hadn't hurt you—"

"Shh," she said. "He didn't."

It was hard, he said. Every part of him open. Trying to be the boy everyone wanted him to be, to become the kind of man they expected. And if he didn't like it, who could he talk to about _that_?

"You're the only one I can tell. And I hate it sometimes, I just hate it."

She stayed on the phone with him for almost another hour, leaning against the cupboard, just listening. "I'm so sorry," he kept saying. "I wish I could go with you." But she told him not to worry about it; she would think of something. When they said goodbye, she placed four muffins in a little bag for him and climbed the stairs to her room.

As she so often did now, she sat on her bed with her guitar across her lap, strumming through chords, brighter and darker with the majors and minors. She had a couple of important matters to think about.

For one thing, it no longer seemed strange that he valued her friendship so much. On his birthday, when he'd stood on Harry's truck and poured his heart over the crowd, she had wondered what she could offer him that anyone in La Push could not. She wasn't a part of the tribe. Now it seemed that being an outsider was a good thing. She could keep his secrets, let him complain and worry and cuss out his teachers if he wanted, and no one in the tribe would know. And oh, how lucky she was that a listener was what he needed. Half the time (_okay, Bella, most of the time)_ she didn't know what to say anyway, and now she could be there for him in a way she was good at.

_G major, C major, D major, G major. _A bright and optimistic sound. _I'm the only one he can tell_. She felt a quiet sort of pride, a swell of worthiness, to know she had something real to offer him. _D major, A major, D major. _ Best friends.

The other matter on her mind was more concerning. She was sorry he couldn't go with her to Hoquiam. But a tiny part of her was also relieved. _D major, A major, G minor, D7. _She knew why. _A minor._ Her coat was draped over her desk chair, and the answer was sticking out of its pocket. _D minor._

She set the guitar down and took the sock into her hands, then she spread it over her pillow to contemplate it. Long, white, and saggy. Stretched beyond redemption. She couldn't say why, but it seemed kind of icky to leave this thing in her bed, so she picked it up and set it on her night table instead. It hung over the side like a half-sick snake.

Here, right here, was the proof it could be all too easy to wreck their friendship—and her heart—if she let her guard down. Sure, Jacob had promised not to talk about _that stuff_, but in those heated, thoughtless moments under the coffee table, no words had been necessary for her sock to get soundly and thoroughly fu— er, fudged up.

She flipped open her journal and turned to last week's entry on why she ought not to fall for Jacob. Those reasons seemed to matter less. Sixteen wasn't so much younger; he wasn't her brother; he wasn't someone she would drag down by involving him in her messed up life. Things were getting better for her, and tonight, she had learned that she really did have something to offer him. And as for Reason Number Four, loving Edward... Well, she felt pretty confused about that lately. All she knew was that it had nearly killed her. She scribbled out the first four reasons and made a new entry.

_Reason Number Five: Love hurts._

And that was why she had to be careful. One wrecked sock could lead to another, and after than he'd probably move on to her pants. And everyone knew that the way to a girl's heart was through her pants.

In fact, socks were probably like a gateway drug to heartache. Kind of like how watching too many James Dean movies could lead to cigarette smoking. She would have to _just say no_ to foot rubs or she would end up a crack whore behind the Safeway in Port Angeles. This could happen, she thought, picking up her guitar again. She had learned about it in health class.

_D major, G minor, A minor, D. _"When you let one boy in your heart..." she sang, "...you should not let another in your sock." _A 7, D minor, A7, D. _ Or maybe, "Let this sock be a warning to you, Bella, a white flag of surrender to your feelings..."

_Um, no. _

She would try harder. After she found a chord progression she liked, she began writing verses in her notebook.

* * *

><p>"(G) Edward, oh (D) Edward, I (C) offered (D) you my (G) pants.<p>

You (G) said that it would (D) kill me; you (C) would not (D) take the (G) chance.

(G)Edward, oh (C) Edward, I'm now a (D) girl who (G) knows

that to (G) protect my (Am) heart, I must (G) keep on (D) all my (G) clothes.

* * *

><p>"Jacob, oh Jacob, you stay out of my socks.<p>

Stay out of all my sweaters, pants, pajama tops and box-

er shorts that I could borrow from you someday really soon

because I'm pretty sure that I would like you in my room."

* * *

><p><em>What?! That wasn't what I meant to write at all! Darn it.<em>

* * *

><p>"Edward, oh Edward, there's just no bleeping way<p>

I'll ever risk my heart again; like crime, it doesn't pay.

You told me that you loved me, then you left me in the woods.

My heart's gone out of business; these doors are closed for good.

* * *

><p>"Jacob, oh Jacob, what could be better than<p>

having you for my best friend? I'm sure that nothing can

be better than our feelings of respect and friendly trust,

unless it is your hand, my foot, and secret, burning lust."

* * *

><p><em>What?! I have no secret lust. No lust at all, in fact. Why am I even thinking about this?<em>

* * *

><p>"Leah, oh Leah, I hope you did not see<p>

What Jake did in your living room; it was all him, and not me.

I was minding my own business when his hand did that to me,

and although it was perfectly innocent, I think... I still hope you did not see.

* * *

><p>"Charlie, oh Charlie, what on earth were you thinking<p>

to say I should drive with Jacob? This idea, it is stinking.

He seems so nice, he's all polite, but little do you know,

that boy has got a wicked streak; if the light is green, he'll go."

* * *

><p><em>And that's why I have to keep my lights red. Which rhymes with bed. What?! Gosh, darn it. Focus, Bella.<em>

* * *

><p>"Dear Mrs. Clearwater, I'm sorry about your couch.<p>

I think I nearly peed my pants; I cringe with self-reproach.

I promise next time I'll not stain your sofa or your chair,

but you should look in Seth's room; there's something weird in there.

* * *

><p>"Coffee Table, oh Coffee Table, thank you for your secret shelter.<p>

I'm glad the others could not say, "Hey, look at how he felt her."

Thank you for your coverage; it preserved my modesty,

for heaven knows my foot just lost its sock vir—"

* * *

><p><em>What?! There have got to be some other words that rhyme with modesty. For Pete's sake, Bella.<em>

* * *

><p>Maybe writing a song had been a dumb idea. She put her guitar away and got ready for bed. Then she snuggled under her grandmother's quilts and lay looking at the ceiling, unable to sleep.<p>

She really needed to get rid of these feelings. She had never had a best friend before, having trailed after Renee from town to town, school to school, where she was always the new girl bewildered in the back of the classroom. It would be stupid to risk this friendship and her heart (_and let's be honest, Bella, risk your sanity_) by allowing Jake's wandering hands to... wander.

_But for him, it's more than that_, said a tiny part of her. _Shut up, _said another part.

She hoped Charlie would change his mind and let her drive alone. Tomorrow was Thursday, her last chance to research the essay before the deadline. She rolled over and looked at the clock. _Ugh,_ _it's Thursday already._

Closing her eyes, she slowed her breathing and counted backwards from one hundred. Then two hundred. Then she got up and paced her room, her stomach twisted with anxiety.

Why did she have to feel this way? Bumping her head into cupboards at the mere sound of his voice? And his hands. So warm and strong. Was it going to be necessary now to dodge his hugs? She didn't want that at all. She had to cross the hall to the bathroom and blow her nose on a wad of toilet tissue. In the mirror, she saw a girl with wide and watering brown eyes. Like a deer. A deer about to have its heart sucked dry.

The ringing of the phone made her jump. Charlie wouldn't want to wake her, and if it was Dorsic, then Charlie could be...

_Oh no, please no._ She scrambled down to the kitchen. "Steve?"

"Who's Steve?" came the whisper at the other end of the line. "And why are you waiting for him to call you in the middle of the night?"

She sagged against the refrigerator in relief. "He's Charlie's deputy. You scared me to death."

"Sorry. Listen, Bells, I can't sleep. So I decided. I'm coming with you."

"But you said—"

"I know. I'll sneak out. For you, I'll do it."

He told her to meet him at the trailhead for Second Beach, just off rez. "One-thirty. One-fifteen, if I can manage." And he said she'd better be saving some of those raisin muffins for him.

"Already in the bag," she smiled. And somehow she knew, in the silence that followed, that he was smiling at her, too.

"Tomorrow," he whispered.

"Tomorrow. Thank you."

She was about to hang up when she heard him say, "Wait."

"Yes?"

"You and this Steve guy. There's nothing—"

"No! He's like, thirty almost. And he's married."

"Ooh, Bells. You're a bad girl."

She smacked the phone back into its cradle and slid down the wall with her hands over her face. And she knew he wouldn't be offended by her hanging up on him; he was probably strutting down the hall to his bedroom. She wondered what he wore to sleep in. And with _that _thought, she got up and hurried back to her room.

The sock was still draped over a corner of her nightstand. She tucked it into her coat pocket again, and if things got dicey tomorrow, she could reach in there and feel it as a reminder to be careful, a torn cotton talisman.

* * *

><p>She left school on Thursday afternoon buzzing with excitement. Angela had bid her goodbye after Physics class, saying that she would have liked to come along, but she had a knitting lesson with Albertine. There was a tendril of red yarn creeping out of her backpack.<p>

No worries, said Bella. She had it covered. Mrs. Kranz had excused her from History _and_ her preceding Gym class, making a great day even greater, and it felt good to know she had Charlie's blessing for the trip. Even so, she felt a little wild as she pulled out of the parking lot of Forks High in her rusty old truck. The roaring and backfiring of the engine could not have been missed, and anyone could see that she was leaving, right in the middle of the school day. Cutting class! Or, at least, that's what it would look like to others. Edward would so not have approved.

But she bet Alice would. It had occurred to her last night, before Jake called, that if she wanted to drive alone she could have just scribbled something on a memo pad for Charlie. Alice would have said it more than fulfilled her filial obligation. "He'll get over it," she'd trill, clapping her pretty white hands. "I have seen it!" But knowing Charlie the way she did now, running off and just saying "I'm eighteen and I left a note," sounded like something only a jerk would do. Would Angela do that? No. And so she had been honest with Charlie that morning about Jake skipping school for her.

"Ah, shit, I didn't think of that." He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table in front of a raisin muffin that she had heated up in the microwave for him. His eyes were bleary.

"Should I go alone?" Poking at her cereal, she wasn't sure if she wanted him to say yes or no, and for a long moment he sat chewing and looking out the window at the early morning rain. At last he said no, he wanted her to go with Jake. And not just so she'd have company.

"That boy's never fucked up anything in his life. Let him sneak out of school." He winked at her over the rim of his cup. "Don't tell him I said that."

Now she bumped along the 110 spur to La Push, uncertain if she was doing something rebellious or not. Probably not, she decided, not when Charlie and Mrs. Kranz told her it was okay. But it was more fun to imagine otherwise.

Pulling into the lot at the trailhead, she thought that Jacob had been smart in selecting their meeting spot. The Second Beach trail wound through lush moss and coastal cypress to the sea, but it started at an ordinary roadside parking area sufficiently distant from the village to muffle the sound of her engine. She spun the truck around and pointed the nose toward the road, waiting.

The woods were quiet, the road deserted and wet. She rolled down her window and leaned out, squinting into the drizzle, her backpack and four muffins beside her on the seat. One-fifteen passed. And one-thirty. Just as she was getting nervous, a dark shape materialized on the road, emerging from the mist. Jacob. Pushing something. Something large. Something in a wheelchair.

_Crap, is he bringing Billy?_

As he came closer, she could tell that he was running behind the chair, spurred on by the threats and complaints of its occupant. "Would you shut up?" he kept saying. Beneath his open jacket, she could see he had worn his _Don't Make Me Kick Your Ass _T-shirt, but she had a feeling his companion could have worn it equally well. Frightfully well, maybe better. Somewhere along the road, she had picked up a long, sturdy stick and kept reaching back to bash his knees.

Bella climbed down from the cab and helped them stuff their backpacks behind the seat. With an accustomed, ninja-like swiftness, Jake collapsed the wheelchair and swung it over the side of the truck bed as Leah hopped onto the bench seat and turned the key in the ignition. "Go! Go! Go!" she said, and Bella threw the truck into first gear and peeled out of the graveled lot.

"No one is chasing us," groaned Jacob.

"Spoilsport," said Leah.

It turned out that she had been itching for an escape, having gotten an A minus on a quiz yesterday and feeling rather frantic about it. She had been washing her hands when she discovered Jacob trying to climb out of the girls' bathroom window.

"The _girls'_ bathroom?" said Bella. _Charlie might be proud of that._

When Leah heard where he was going, she had threatened him with, "Ditch on me, I snitch on you," so he'd managed to heave her wheelchair out the window and lift her after it.

"You're really heavy, you know that?"

"Fuck you. I'm dainty as hell."

They rolled down the road, Jacob calling her a leaden princess and Leah congratulating Bella on her badass jailbreak skills. Bella decided not to tell her that this outing had been sanctioned by a teacher and a cop. _Me, Bella Swan, badder ass girl every day. Bad asser? _Whatever. It felt good.

"Ooh," she said, glaring at the asphalt ahead. "I'm so bad aaaaa..."

"You sound like a sheep."

"Bad aaaaa..."

"Christ, girl, is that the best you can do?" Leah pinched her thigh, hard.

"Ouch!" she cried. "That freaking hurts!"

"Stop it." Jacob had rolled down the window, holding his arm out in the mist, closing his eyes. They were heading south from Forks now, past the diner and the station, past the high school, past Newton's Outfitters and Pacific Pizza and away, beyond the edge of town and between the green fields of newly planted pine. Bella asked him if he was sure no one had seen him leave, and he pulled in his damp hand and wiped the cool water over his face. "I don't care," he said, improbable laughter bubbling up from his chest. He leaned out the window, lifting his face to the wind. His hair had come loose from its ponytail and whipped behind him, a ragged, black pennant. "Oh, my God," he said. "I don't care."

"Are you crying?" Leah punched his arm.

"Shut up. You never snuck out before, either."

"Not out of school," Leah smirked. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she pulled him back into the cab. "Dumbass."

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and squeezed her against his chest, kissing her head until she told him he was disgusting and that she'd stomp his feet with her casts if he didn't stop.

"Oh, Bells," he said. "This is great."

And it was. They sped past the gray ocean and the cliffs of the Kalaloch coast, the road weaving in and out of verdant forest, cut timberland, and wide vistas of open water. She remembered running through these forests with Edward, clinging like a flea to his stony back. He had been as beautiful as Michelangelo's statue of David—or he would have been, if he'd ever taken his clothes off—and rushing through the trees with him had felt exhilarating. But somehow, chugging down the highway at her truck's embarrassingly feeble fifty-two miles per hour felt more fun with Leah and Jake. She smiled at them until Leah said, "Eyes on the road, moron," and Jake asked her to pull over and let him drive. Through careful coasting and gunning the motor in fourth gear, he coaxed the speed toward sixty.

In Hoquiam they split up, for the library and the auto parts store were within a few blocks of each other. Leah and Jake left her to sift through old copies of the _Hoquiam Herald_, and thank goodness the librarian was willing to help her, for she was baffled by the archival system. It seemed the documents were all stored on tiny fish.

"Fish?" she had said, standing stupefied at the front desk.

"Microfiche," said the librarian. He was a tall man with a shiny bald head and a thin tie hanging sadly down the front of his shirt. "You need a special viewing machine."

"Fish?" she said again, and he rolled his eyes and asked her to follow him down a set of stairs to the basement, where he set her up in front of an odd-looking machine that appeared to be a cross between a carnival mirror and an aquarium. She peered into the glass, searching for sea life. The librarian brought her films of the newspaper editions for 1935, '36, and '37, and though she found no fish beneath the lens of the machine, she did find a lot of valuable information.

At first it was hard to sort through the articles. Much of her work involved skimming through the newspaper images, searching for the name _Moss _in between advertisements for ladies' stockings , cucumber soap, and hair pomade, which looked like what would modernly be called hand lotion. Who would put hand lotion in his hair? Ridiculous. And then she realized, with no small degree of chagrin, that she knew someone who _still_ thought it was stylish to put hand lotion in his hair. She sifted through the films, and after an hour or so, she gathered several intriguing tidbits about Vera's life, in a confusing jumble that was anything but chronological.

John Moss, her father, had been the owner and proprietor of Hoquiam Hardware and Mercantile. It folded in April of 1936. A baby boy, Milton, had been born to the family in September of 1935. Bertram, her older brother, appeared in a couple of articles about a variety bazaar and a 1935 Fourth of July musicale; apparently, he had been a talented pianist. Mrs. Judith Moss had died in the spring of 1937 from unknown causes, but Bella wondered if it had been grief, for sadly, she read that little Milton had died in August of 1936. She found lists of Hoquiam High's graduating classes of 1935, '36, '37 and '38, but neither Vera's nor Bertram's names appeared there. And in June of 1936, a terrible logging accident had merited four articles.

A team of loggers was felling trees in the Upper Quinault Valley, about an hour north, when a massive hemlock fell in an unexpected direction. Several men had been injured, including one Reginald B. Horowitz, whose spine was broken beneath a truck that overturned. Bella recognized the names of a few Forks families among the crew members: a G. Dorsic, a D. Kowalski, an F. Stanley, and an M. Crowley. Vera's brother Bertram had been trapped beneath the tree for several hours, his ribcage crushed, and had lingered on death's doorstep for almost a week before succumbing to internal injuries. One article bemoaned the absence of a Dr. Charles Culpepper, the town's only physician, who had left town with his wife, Ethel, and their son and daughter on the same day as the logging accident.

How horrible! Poor Vera! Bella scribbled a timeline in her notebook. The baby brother born, the store goes bankrupt, Bertram has to drop out of school to log, Vera's fiancé leaves, her brother is crushed and killed, the baby dies, her mother dies, and Vera—she scanned the class lists again—never went back to finish high school. What must she and her father have done after the deaths of her mother and brothers? And how terrible that the doctor left town right when the accident happened! Could he have saved the baby, too? Oh, poor, poor Vera!

Bella shoved her chair back from the table and covered her mouth with her hands. No wonder Vera was so quiet! Had she been this way all her life? She would have to ask Albertine. Albertine must know what Vera and Mr. Moss had done next. And she would do something nice for Vera, next time she saw her. She didn't know what, but she would think of something.

She felt a little lightheaded. How could so many bad things happen to one person? It seemed like the Depression had been bad enough, but the loss of the fiancé had prefaced a landslide of heartache. _Not the only one. Not at all._

Bella staggered out to the lobby, where she thanked the librarian and hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder. Jake and Leah were waiting by her truck outside, holding a large paper bag from the NAPA parts store. She pushed open the glass door and stepped out into the cold air.

"How'd it go?" asked Jake.

She shook her head, clutching her notebook and looking down at them from the top of the library steps. It was probably only one story above the street, but with the spinning in her head, she felt as if she were standing on top of a mountain.

"Hurry up," said Leah. "I'm hungry."

Perhaps if she had held onto the railing, Bella might have descended the steps unscathed. But with the roaring in her ears and the precious information in her notebook, her head and hands had been occupied in saving her homework. She slipped on the wet concrete and tumbled to the sidewalk, flopping at their feet in a humiliating tangle of torn denim and skinned elbows.

"Quit laughing at her," said Jacob.

Leah rolled to the truck and fished around in the space behind the seat while Jake helped her. Both her elbows were bleeding and she had ripped through one knee of her jeans, bleeding there, too. He cooed over her and made her sit down on the steps, leaning over her knee and poking at the abrasion there. She caught herself hoping he would take his shirt off like last time, leaning close and dabbing at her cuts, his hair swinging toward her over his brown shoulders and that delicious boy-smell setting her blood on fire, and then she had to scold herself for such thoughts. She hadn't reckoned on getting into any sweet and tender injury-care scenarios with him. She also hadn't reckoned on Leah.

"My mom's a nurse, you know," she said, rolling toward them with her backpack across her lap. "She always makes me carry this stuff." And she pulled from her bag a tall, cold can of antiseptic spray.

* * *

><p>Driving home in the rain, Bella stared straight ahead. Jacob, sitting stiffly by the passenger window, was also silent, but Leah was a fountain of cheer.<p>

"Damn, girl," she said, whacking Bella on the back. "I knew you had it in you."

Their dinner conversation in a small Chinese restaurant had run along the same vein. Bella poked at her lemon chicken and rice while Leah relived the last half hour. She would have made a terrible nurse, Bella thought. Terribly thorough.

Leah turned to Jacob, a pea pod speared on her fork. "Did you hear what she said when I hit the elbows that third time?"

"Shut up, Leah. We all heard it."

"And then the knee?" She reached across the table to steal a piece of chicken from Bella's plate. "That stuff's like magic cussing spray for you, isn't it?"

Jacob put down his chopsticks, and Leah laughed at him.

"You just like her all quiet and shy."

"I like her in one piece. And I _don't_ like getting kicked out of the library."

"We were only kicked out of the parking lot."

_That _hadn't been embarrassing at all. Bella had nearly knocked her skull into the stair railing, scrambling to get away from Leah, and at the top of the steps a group of first graders and their parents, having just concluded story hour, stood appalled.

Now they rolled north on the highway, Bella gritting her teeth. Jacob had offered to drive, but she knew that she'd attempt to strangle Leah if her hands weren't glued to the steering wheel. "No thanks," she had ground out. Leah just leaned back and put her arms around Jake's and Bella's shoulders.

The weather turned colder as night fell, and Bella pulled over near Lake Quinault, stepping out of the truck to put her red coat on. She wished she had been wearing it when she fell; the thick wool might have spared her elbows at least. Bending her arms to get them in the sleeves hurt like a bi— er, billy goat. She leaned against the truck for a moment, almost perspiring with pain, despite the air blowing off the lake.

This is where it happened, she thought. Somewhere on the other side of this black water, on the dark, forested flanks of Mount Olympus, Vera's brother had died. And Mr. Horowitz, apparently, had been paralyzed. How awful it was that the town's only doctor had moved away on the same day.

_Wait a minute! Culpepper... _Why did that name sound familiar? She thought and thought. Then she realized it was because she had seen that name before. She had read it in the article about the logging crew; there had been an E. Culpepper among them. _Huh,_ she thought. _Weird name._

"Let's go," bellowed Leah, hanging out of the driver's side window. "I'm getting cold."

No one really spoke much for the rest of the ride home. Bella was longing for some aspirin, Jacob seemed irritated with Leah, and Leah, after thirty or forty miles, seemed to have figured out that her companions didn't share her interest in an imagined musical review of "The Flight of the Bumble Bella."

They were fifteen minutes from La Push on the quiet, two lane road when the evening took another unexpected turn.

"My nose itches," said Leah. "You got any tissues in here?" She opened Bella's backpack and rooted around in it, then she dropped the glove compartment lid on Jacob's knees to look in there, too.

"Ah!" he said. "Damn, Leah, that hurts."

"Oh, sorry. Did I break your knee?" She banged the lid on his knees again. "Does it hurt? Does it hurt as much as two broken feet?" _Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

"Cut it out!"

"Quit it, Leah," said Bella. She tried to swat Leah's hand away from the glove box, but the truck swerved a little, so she had to grab the wheel again.

"You big baby," said Leah. _Bang. Bang._

"What is your problem?"

"My nose, jerk-wad. I need a tissue." She put her hands in Jacob's coat pockets, and then she tried Bella's. That's when she found it. "What's this?" she said. Like a magician pulling scarves out of a hat, she slowly withdrew the long, white, wasted specimen.

"Give it back." Bella reached for it, but the truck swerved again.

"No, no, what's this?" Leah held it aloft, the sock dangling from her fingers with the saggy, stretched out toe bag at the end. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It's nothing." Bella reached and swerved.

"Is this from that day at my house? Is this what you guys were doing under the coffee table?"

"Bella?" said Jacob. "You saved that?"

"Oh, my God, you people are disgusting." Leah pinched it between her thumb and one finger, wrinkling her nose. "I can't believe you did this right in front of me. With everybody there."

"Give it back!" said Bella.

"You know what this looks like, don't you?" said Leah. "It looks like a used—"

"Shut up!" she cried. "It does not!"

Jacob took the sock from Leah and spread it across his knees. Slowly, his hands smoothed it flat. "Bells? Maybe we should talk about this."

"No! You promised!"

"But you saved it. Maybe—"

"We are not talking about this! That was the deal!" She swiped the sock from his lap as the truck veered across the road into the opposite lane. Jake and Leah were shouting at her and the engine was making a fearsome chugging noise as she took her foot off the gas with the drifting.

"Shift down!" said Jacob.

"Give me the wheel!" said Leah.

They swerved back and forth across the road. Bella held the sock between her teeth as she dropped the engine into third gear and furiously rolled down the window with her left hand.

"You're putting that in your _mouth_?" said Leah.

"I'm putting it out the window!" she cried, holding it out into the rain, a white tail flapping from her hand. "I didn't save this! I just forgot to throw it away!" She opened her hand, wind rushing through her fingers. "Why would I save that? It's nothing."

"Oh, Bells." His voice cracked; he turned to the rear window and watched it flipping away into the night.

They drove on in silence.

Why did this have to happen? It was hard enough living with these swirling, maddening, confusing, nauseating feelings sloshing through her every day; now her cheeks burned and her stomach felt hollow with the pain of exposure. They knew. _Jake_ knew. And the farther she drove, the worse she felt. Why, why? Inexplicable tears welled in her eyes. An anchor attached to her heart had been flung overboard, the line reeling out fast. The pull was so hard that after another moment, she stomped on the brakes and spun the truck in a sickening U-turn.

It was hard to find it in the dark. Jake and Leah waited in the truck, the engine idling, as she stepped through the wet bushes in the ditch by the side of the road. Lifting her feet carefully through the ferns and slick grass, she moved with the cautious quiet of a deer, graceful for once, with no one watching. She found it half-drowned in a puddle and wrung the water from it.

In the truck again, Leah reached into Bella's pocket and said, "You have got to be kidding me."

"We're not talking about this," said Bella. When Jacob turned his face to the window, she pretended that it wasn't to hide his smile.

Nobody said much when she dropped them off at Billy's house. The dim porch light cast its gleam into the rain, but not enough to really show their faces. Jacob lifted Leah's wheelchair from the truck bed and snapped it open, clicking the footbrake into place, and Bella helped Leah down from the cab.

"Goodbye," said Bella. She didn't look at him.

"Goodbye," said Jacob. He didn't look at her, either; his cheeks were pink and he was biting his lower lip.

Leah rolled over his foot, probably on purpose, and ascended the ramp to the porch, where she beat on Billy's door with a hard fist. "I'm calling my dad," she said. The rain poured down on them in the driveway as Leah watched from the shelter of the porch.

"I guess I'll be going then," said Bella.

"Okay," said Jacob.

But then they stood there in the rain some more. Bella put a hand in her pocket, squeezing the soggy sock. Billy opened the door and Leah went into the house. "Where's Jake?" she could hear him saying, and Leah muttered something impolite. The two of them rolled back to the porch and sat looking at the pair in the driveway. Bella's keys dangled from her hand, and Jacob's boots were filling with water.

"You two are pathetic," said Leah. Then she and Billy went into the house and closed the door.

As she drove away, Jacob stood in the driveway, his hands in his pockets. She watched him in the rearview mirror, and he didn't move until she had driven too far to see him anymore; he could be standing there still, for all she knew. She stopped at the Second Beach trailhead on her way out of town and rubbed her hands over her face, trying to smear away some of the rain water. Then she spread the sock across the heater vents on the dashboard so it would be dry by the time she got home.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: You know, every time I post a chapter, I feel a bit seasick. Please let me know if you like it.<em>

_ Questions if you're interested:_

_1. What's up with Mike and the phone call at work?_

_2. What do you think of Charlie's decision to let Jake skip school, and Jake's reaction as they were leaving town?_

_3. What about young Vera's series of unfortunate events? _

_4. How would you describe the current state of J and B's relationship?_

_5. Overall, which parts seemed funny? (You know this helps me to produce more of the same.)_

_Thanks for reading, and thanks to my many new subscribers/followers. I hope you'll tell me what you think. And thanks to my long-time readers; you are very important to me. I appreciate your hanging in there despite my slow writing style._

_Previews (not spoilers!) to reviewers, as always. _

_P.S. True story: While staying at the Quileute Oceanside Resort earlier this spring (I know, I'm insane, I actually went there. And if you can, you should go, too; it is stunningly beautiful), my socks got wet at the beach and I placed them over the heater in my room to dry. An hour later: what's that burning smell? Yikes! Socks were smokin'. Thank heavens I didn't burn down Jacob's town. Don't tell. _


	22. Chapter 22 Second Chances

_Dear Readers, _

_Are you still out there? It's been five months since my last post. During that time, I struggled with what to write next. Many thanks to pingou, Aubrette, Beaches of La Push, Zayide, and ilovfanfic for offering suggestions, encouragement, and greetings as I gnashed my teeth. I can only hope that in the intervening months, my dear readers managed to somehow, heroically, carry on with their lives. ;-) And perhaps, to remember my story._

_Yours fondly, Amandaforks_

* * *

><p><strong><em>Bella's Guitar<em>**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**"Second Chances"**

_"Kiss me."_

_They were standing outside her house. The night air was cool on her cheeks. In the light from the porch, she could see how his eyes had darkened. _

_"Kiss me."_

_He pressed his forehead to hers. Holding his breath. He had been doing that around her, more and more. He closed his eyes, that familiar, pinched expression marring his beautiful face. When she raised her lips to his, he stood perfectly still. _

_"Please," she whispered. She moved her mouth against his, darting her tongue, in a moment of daring, across the seam of his lips. This was the closest she'd ever come. The most she'd risked, the hardest she'd pushed. She pulled at the neck of his sweater, tilting her head, lifting her face to his, and when she shut her eyes she could almost believe that he wasn't waiting for her to stop._

It was six a.m. She smacked her alarm clock and rolled over. Her pillow was wet.

The dreams hadn't bothered her for weeks. When she thought of that night, she couldn't remember the rest of their conversation. Her arm had been throbbing and her head hurt, and she was sorry, so sorry, that she had ruined the party. A dark stain had spread down the side of Alice's green velvet dress. He hadn't come to her window that night, or the night after that. The following night she spent in the forest.

Now she lay in the dark, chilled, and tried to remember the dream before that one. There had been the sound of the ocean. Cold stars. A blanket. Someone warm, a hand in her hair. She had felt something rise in her body, something hot and alive, and almost instantly she felt as if she were choking.

_Kiss me._

She knew it was part of why he'd left. And as often as he had pushed her away, in the end it was she who had pushed him to leave.

The house was silent, the sky outside still dark. She switched on her light and rubbed her forearm across her nose. Then she turned on her computer, and while it wheezed to life, she looked through her notes from Hoquiam.

She understood now why Vera was so quiet. This afternoon she would go to her. Until then, she would finish her essay, get through the school day, and try not to think about why the dream she'd lost, the one she couldn't quite remember, made her feel like crying even more than the one that had woken her up.

_Bella Swan_, she typed in her heading. _American History and Government II. Mrs. A. Kranz. February 6, 2006._ For her title: _A Life in Love's Shadow._ For her opening line: _Sixteen year old Vera Moss, happily expecting a lifetime with her soulmate, could not have known that her greatest love would lead to her greatest loss, or that the shadow of this loss would darken the rest of her life._

She couldn't decide, sometimes, why love seemed to kick some people in the teeth. Why it lasted sixty years, like Donald and Albertine, or why it was snatched away, like Jake's mom. She couldn't imagine him loving anyone else the way he had loved her. She didn't know why Renee had found love again and Charlie hadn't, and sometimes it seemed to her that the one who was still hurting was the one who had loved the hardest. She didn't know why love could change overnight, the way Sam left Leah. And she wondered, sometimes, if she had given Edward everything she'd wanted to give him, if she'd be hurting worse now.

The sock lay on her nightstand, stiff with mud and dried rainwater. Jacob probably thought, since she had saved it, that things would change between them. And maybe they would. It had felt good, so good, to let him in, just for a moment, even if it was only into her sock. Here in her room, alone at six in the morning with the curtains closed against the dark, she could admit that she was drawn to him. He was beautiful. There was a place on his neck, where his hair fell, that she wanted to touch. It was a border between what was seen and what was unseen. She wanted to touch him there, and she wanted to press her face into his chest and breathe in the scent of him. Jacob. Him.

Knowing that he felt this way too made her feel sick, like she was sliding downhill. Something would happen, some thoughtless thing that would leave them feeling awkward and ugly—or worse—when it was over. Because it would be. That's how these things worked. Something was going to happen, and the shift would end them. He was too good-hearted and sweet to see it, so she would have to be strong for them both. The sock made a dusty gasp when she crushed it. It was no use trying to throw it away; she didn't even bother. Instead she stuffed it back into her coat pocket. And there it would stay.

When her essay was done she knew it was a good piece of writing, very good, full of all the things she had been feeling since that terrible day in 1936. While it was printing she went across the hall to take a shower. She knelt on the floor of the tub, the spray stinging her shoulders, and cried until the water ran cold.

* * *

><p>Charlie was on the phone when she came downstairs. His usual yep and nope had given way to yes and no, so she figured he was talking to the station. She was glad; it gave her time to collect her wits. She had dressed in a pair of jeans, a white tank top, and a red and white checkered flannel shirt. All of her new sweaters were in the wash, so she had to make do with this old boxy thing that hung to mid-thigh. To improve her look, she'd experimented with tying the tails at her waist and tucking in the back. That looked a little better. Kind of like a cowgirl. Then she'd twisted her wet hair into a couple of braids. <em>Yee-haw<em>, she groaned to herself._ I'm ready for school. _Unfortunately, she couldn't do anything about her stuffy nose and red eyes.

She poured herself a bowl of raisin bran. Charlie waved a finger at her, so she poured one for him, too, and opened the refrigerator for some milk. She spilled it all, naturally, and while Charlie was rubbing the heel of his hand in one eye, she pulled open a drawer and found a couple of her mom's old yellow towels to mop up the mess. It occurred to her, as she wrung them out over the sink, that maybe he saved these things not because he still loved her, but because they were a reminder to himself not to be stupid again.

Charlie, like herself, like Vera, was no fool.

After pouring the raisin bran back into the box, she found a package of waffles in the freezer. While they were toasting, Charlie hung up the phone and gestured to the seat beside him. "We got problems," he said.

The papers Steve Dorsic had rounded up on Monday had proved helpful. The second missing hiker, gone twelve days now, had been sensible enough to sign the Backcountry Registry before hiking into one of the more remote areas of the Park. Now they knew he had headed alone in the upper Hoh Valley, along a river that ran fifty-some miles from the slopes of Mount Olympus to the sea at the Hoh Reservation.

"The Who?" said Bella.

"The Hoh. They're an Indian tribe. Related to the Quileutes."

"Not a band, then."

He squinted at her, and she thought that she never could win at these trivia games. Or at much else. The toaster dinged, and she got up to fix their waffles.

The Hoh River Trail, he explained, was popular with tourists and close to Forks. Most people only walked a few miles upriver from the visitor center and back, but a few more intrepid souls ventured farther. The scenery couldn't be beat: sparkling waterfalls and miles of ancient trees draped in lush, green moss. Unfortunately, this was the same trail where the first hiker had been found dead, and the tail end of winter presented new dangers from the weather.

"It's not looking good. The park service is still focused on search and rescue, but I'm afraid we may need to think about search and recovery."

February meant meltwater, when the mountain snowpacks shed their weight. The Hoh was now an icy gray torrent. If he had slipped and fallen in—

It was easy for Bella to share his conjecture.

Deputy Dorsic was still spooked about the woods, so Charlie had reassigned him to liaise with the tribe at the river mouth. In the meantime, he and the Port Angeles sheriff had assembled a small team of rangers and medics. There was still hope that the man was out there somewhere, lost or injured. The rangers had set out on horseback yesterday morning, hoping to cover more ground in the upper reaches of the valley, but for some reason, the horses had become spooked, too, so badly that they'd been forced to turn back.

"Could have been a cougar," he said. "But I don't think so. Something's off."

Unfortunately, Bella didn't think it was a cougar, either.

Charlie said he was sending the team out again this morning, this time with a K-9 unit and his second deputy leading the party. "Hathaway's good. If there's anything to be found, he'll find it." He poured syrup over his waffle and passed it to her, looking her in the eye. "Stay out of the woods."

_You, too,_ she almost said. Instead she dropped her gaze to her plate. Was it wrong to hope that the guy had drowned? What kind of horrible person was she to hope that? Suddenly, she wasn't hungry anymore. She got up and tipped her waffle into the trash can.

Charlie followed her to the door. "I packed you some lunch," he said, handing her a paper bag. "Be home by six tonight. I want to talk to you about something."

She nodded, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. She pulled on the doorknob, but the door wouldn't open. Looking up, she saw that Charlie had his hand on it, over her head.

"You want to tell me what's wrong?"

She could feel the tears starting again. When he moved his hand to put it on her shoulder, she wrenched the door open and ran out into the cold.

* * *

><p>In English class, the <em>Wuthering Heights<em> presentations had begun. Eric Yorkie stood at the front of the room with his partners, a couple girls Bella didn't know. One of them wore her green and yellow cheerleading uniform with its pleated skirt and a burly lumberjack embroidered on the front. The other was a girl Bella had seen a few times in the hall outside the band room, languishing in exile with the other French horn players. No teachers would let them practice in the hall, and the band director wouldn't let them in the room until they stopped sounding like they were murdering puppies.

French Horn Girl pushed a button on the battered VCR Mr. Bertie had wired to an old television strapped to a cart, and the screen flickered to life. In a summer hay field, a woman in a red dress swayed and sang a strange song.

_"Out on the wily, windy moors we'd roll and fall in green."_

The singer, explained Cheerleader Girl, had been a pop sensation in Britain in the late seventies and early eighties. She was a classically trained dancer, and this song was her original composition.

_"You had a temper like my jealously, too hot, too greedy."_

Bella watched her leap and twist. She supposed the way she was waving her foot in the air did look a little like ballet. But some of the students snickered at her reedy voice and frizzy hair. Eric Yorkie lifted the poster higher until it covered his face.

_Been there, done that_, thought Bella.

_"Heathcliff!" _went the chorus, _"it's me, your Cathy, I've come home. I'm so cold. Let me in at your window."_

"Your thesis?" prompted Mr. Bertie. He was leaning on a bookshelf at the back of the room with his arms folded over his chest. "This song seems to be eating up your presentation time."

"This song _is _the thesis," replied Cheerleader Girl. She reminded the class of Chapter Three, in which Mr. Lockwood is frightened by Cathy's ghost and Heathcliff weeps at the snowy window. Their poster, Bella saw, was dominated by four rectangular holes cut in it. The paper between them had been painted black, and Bella was pretty sure it was the same flaky acrylic used to paint "Go, Jacks, Go!" on the banners that drooped from the gymnasium walls. Two curtains, in the form of paper towels, had been stapled on either side of the rectangles.

"Your thesis is a song?" said Mr. Bertie.

"No," said French Horn Girl. "It's that their love is stronger than death."

"Okay. What about these lyrics? _'I hated you, I loved you, too.' _And also, _'Let me grab your soul.' _Oh, and what about _'Cruel Heathcliff, my one dream, my only master.'"_

"You've heard this song before?"

"Many times."

Cheerleader and French Horn looked at one another. The singer stalked through the grass with her arms stretched before her in the attitude of a nightmare.

"Well," said Cheerleader, "their love _is_ stronger than death. Like this." She lifted a cup of white confetti and nudged Eric with her shoe. Bella was pretty sure he was rolling his eyes behind the poster, but he obediently stuck his fingers through it as his partner rained paper over the floor.

"Heathcliff!" he squeaked. "Let me in!"

The class burst out laughing, and Brandon pulled the collar of his U-Dub sweatshirt over his face. "Please," groaned Cody, turning to her, "tell me we can do better than that."

Mr. Bertie switched off the video. Their thesis, he said, was under-developed; anyone could argue that their love was stronger than death. But there were other aspects of that relationship that Eric's group hadn't explored, aspects which he hoped the rest of the class would be prepared to discuss. He reminded them of the scene in the graveyard where Heathcliff exhumes Cathy's coffin to look on her withered face. "Is that love?" he asked. "A love stronger than death?"

He turned to Eric's group. "C minus. And I'm going to need you to sweep that up."

When the bell rang, Bella slipped the novel into her backpack. She told her group mates not to worry; she'd be writing their essay over the weekend, and although she hadn't narrowed down her thesis yet, she knew it would be better than Eric's. Love outlasting death? Really? When one is deserted by the undead, that's a pretty clear indication that love doesn't outlast death. Eric's thesis was a crock of shit.

_I mean, sugar. A crock of sugar._

No, insisted a voice inside her, it was a crock of shit.

_I've been hanging out with Leah too much._

She followed her classmates into the hall. Spinning the combination dial on her locker, she wrestled the door open and surveyed the contents. All within was stored with a tidiness that mirrored the way she kept Charlie's house. She exchanged her calculus and Spanish texts for the books she'd need after lunch and placed her latest Spanish quiz into a folder. Mrs. Goff had written her a nice note, offering to tutor her after school. Wouldn't Mrs. Goff be surprised when she saw how much she had improved? _El diablo está en mi zapato. Mis pantalones quieren a comer la biblioteca._ Genius.

She grabbed the paper bag Charlie had packed for her and was about to close the locker when she noticed something odd. Something odd and a little sad, another casualty of autumn's blank abyss: the inside door of her locker was a flat, beige plane of nothingness.

For a moment she just stared at it. Then she looked at Angela, stacking her books in her own locker. Its door was papered with sticky notes about her volunteer commitments and a program from Forks Elementary's production of _Stone Soup;_ there was a picture of one of her brothers dressed as a peasant. Mike, across the hall, had taped up his class schedule, but beneath it were ticket stubs and a picture of Jessica dancing with him at last year's prom. She had seen him lift up the schedule to look at it when he thought no one was around. Even Lauren had chosen decorations that reflected her interests, namely a mirror framed in glittery purple plastic and a little shelf, suction-cupped to the metal, that held a large box of—

Bella blushed and looked away. It seemed that Lauren's interests included a lot of extra-curricular activities with Tyler Crowley. And legions of others, judging from the size of that box.

She looked at her own locker again. An expanse of dull tan. _The lone and level sands stretch far away, _she thought. _My name is Bellamandius, queen of nothing. Look on my locker, ye mighty, and despair. _How many months had she sat in her rocking chair, staring at the white curtains by the window? Long enough for this locker to reflect more about her than Lauren Mallory's mirror.

_Who are you anymore?_ Billy had said.

Sometimes, she still didn't know. But inside her folder was a paper Mrs. Kranz had given her. She took it out now, traced her fingers over the gold embossed seal of the university and taped it to the door. She would apply.

* * *

><p>The Forks High cafeteria ought to have a sign on it saying, "Enter at Your Own Risk." Or maybe just, "Hey, You. Bella Swan. Enter at Your Own Risk."<p>

The gang was already seated at their usual table when she slid into a chair next to Angela and opened her lunch bag. She could hardly believe what was inside. Charlie had made deviled eggs, tucked into a tiny Tupperware box on a bed of lettuce, with fresh dill and cracked pepper on top. There was a roast beef sandwich on dark rye with baby spinach leaves and some sort of mild, sweet cheese, Havarti or maybe provolone, and a spread of spicy brown mustard. In another little box, he had packed a fruit salad of peaches and fresh pineapple drizzled with honey and toasted coconut. Was she dreaming? She pulled each item from the bag and spread them before Angela.

"Wow," said her friend. "Has your dad been watching _Top Chef?"_

"I don't know." She rustled in the bottom of the bag and came up with four oatmeal cookies.

"Did he buy these?"

"No." They were still soft in the middle and there was a fine sheen of butter on the bottom. "These are less than twenty-four hours old."

"You sound like a food detective," said Mike. "Share."

She passed him one of the cookies.

"Oh, um," he said. "Holy shit."

Bella bit into her sandwich and closed her eyes in bliss. Maybe Charlie was turning over a new leaf. They had each been through some rough times, and now they would devote themselves to one another and be a little family, just the two of them.

"These things are made of crack," said Mike, reaching for another one.

Angela's reply was hard to distinguish, for her mouth was full of cookie, too. It sounded like she said, "Karma cooing done," but it might have been, "Cops don't cook with drugs." Bella hardly cared. Where had Charlie been hiding this talent?

"Ooh," said Angela, "can I have one of those eggs?"

Bella passed her one from its little bed of lettuce. The whipped yolks, she saw, had been nestled into each half with the star-shaped tip of a pastry bag, not a spoon. So precise! She could only assume that while she had been in Hoqiuam last night, her father had gotten busy in the kitchen.

Alas, though, all good things must come to an end. At least, Bella thought, for her. As she was savoring her sandwich, she remembered the dreadful bologna-on-white-bread that Jacob had made, and the contrast was so striking that she had to laugh. Mike asked her what was so funny, and before she could reply, Lauren joined their conversation.

"It's your shirt, isn't it?"

Bella looked down at her plaid flannel, still knotted at the waist.

"I think it's cute," said Angela.

"For a farmer," said Jessica.

"Or a rodeo clown," said Lauren.

"What's with you guys?" said Mike. "Who cares about anybody's shirt?"

Bella started rewrapping her sandwich.

"What do _you_ care about anybody's shirt?" said Jessica.

Connor popped a tater tot into his mouth. "I like it. It reminds me of Daisy Duke. Except without the hotness."

"Or a cool car," added Tyler.

"Or the boobs," finished Lauren.

Angela rewrapped her own sandwich. The two of them stood up. "Why do we even sit with them?" whispered Bella as they walked away. Behind them, they could hear Mike asking what was wrong with them, and Jessica asking what was wrong with him, and then a chair scraped across the floor and somebody else left the table, too, but they didn't look back to see who it was.

It was raining outside, but one half of a picnic table under an awning near the art room was sort of dry. A couple of stoner kids and a girl with purple hair made room for them.

"Want a hit?"

"Er, no thanks," said Angela.

They ate the rest of their lunch under a bluish cloud that the awning prevented from dissipating. Bella didn't mind, though. Her lunch was delicious. It cheered her up. Charlie had made it just for her. She wondered what he wanted to talk to her about later, but she didn't wonder too hard. The smoke was making it hard to concentrate on anything but her lunch.

* * *

><p>The rest of the school day passed in a fuzzy blur. Bella couldn't remember a thing about Physics class, and in Gym a basketball hit her in the head, but it felt like a balloon. History class was absolutely hilarious for some reason, and she and Angela had to clap their hands over their mouths more than once. Mrs. Kranz looked hard at them, but she didn't say anything. She pulled down two of the roller maps above her chalkboard, one of the nation, one of Washington.<p>

"Let's talk about conservation and natural resources," she said. "Who can name a national park?"

"Olympic," groaned the class.

"Name another."

"Yellowstone."

"Yosemite."

Mrs. Kranz pointed to the parks on the maps. "Name another. How about here in Washington?"

"The Cascades."

"Mount Rainier."

She began labeling them with post-it notes that she stuck to the map. "Keep going."

It took a while, but the class was able to recall, mostly through having been dragged there on family vacations, the names of several more parks. Mrs. Kranz papered the maps with their names: the Grand Canyon, Acadia, the Everglades, Joshua Tree. When the class ran out of ideas, she offered a few of her own: Bryce Canyon, Sequoia, Crater Lake, Redwoods, the Badlands, Big Bend, and the Great Smoky Mountains.

"Why are there so many in the western states?" she asked.

"Manifest destiny?" said Eric.

"Well, sort of." She looked at the map. "In a way." She looked at Eric. "No, not really."

He put his head down on his desk, and Bella figured it was just not his day. As for herself, she was having a tough day, too. That funny feeling from lunch time was coming and going, coming and going. The blue post-it notes Mrs. Kranz had stuck to the map were starting to look like butterflies' wings. So many. Fluttering all across America. It was so beautiful that she began to sniffle, smearing her hands over her eyes in the back of the classroom.

Mrs. Kranz talked about the creation of some of the first parks under U. S. Grant and Teddy Roosevelt, and she talked about citizens' movements that had led to more recent designations, such as the Congaree in South Carolina. "Why did we set aside these lands?" she asked. "What is their purpose?"

That was harder for the class to articulate. The talk turned to camping and taking photographs, being alone. "Yes," she said. "For stars. For solitude."

"For hugging trees," said Tyler under his breath.

Mrs. Kranz heard him, though. "Say it again."

His face darkened.

"No," she said, "say it again. This is exactly what I want to talk about. And it's what the people of the Olympic Peninsula were talking about during the Great Depression."

She instructed the class to take notes as she described the controversy surrounding the creation of Olympic National Park in 1938. Conservation of resources was weighed against using those resources, and this led to more debate about whether the trees within the park could even be considered a resource anymore, now that they'd been designated protected. Was there a way to measure their value if not in board feet?

Bella could see the skin on Jessica's arms prickling. "My grandfather is a lumberman. It's how we eat."

"And this is what we need to talk about. It's how a lot of people eat. How a lot of families survived the Depression. So what is the value of a park when people are hungry?"

The fissure deepened, widened in the classroom. After a while, Mrs. Kranz sat back and watched as the sons and daughters of forestry workers clashed with future environmentalists. French Horn Girl was shouted down for saying that trees had a sort of spirit to them. Tyler wanted to know if she meant a ghost, and Lauren said if that were true, then vegetarians should stop eating vegetables.

"Red herring," said Mrs. Kranz.

"No, it's a tree," said Lauren.

Angela dropped her head onto her desk with a thunk. Then she thunked it again. "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow," she whispered to Bella, half-laughing, half-grimacing. _Thunk._ _Thunk._ "Oh, wow. You should try this. _Thunk._

"There's no fish in the woods," continued Lauren. "And Jess is right; when you're hungry, you sell trees."

"No, Melanie's right." Mike was perched on the back of his chair. French Horn Girl looked grateful to have a champion. "You sell access to trees," he said. "Boots, maps, cameras, hotel rooms, stuff like that. That's how my family eats."

Jessica glared at him.

Toward the end of the hour, Mrs. Kranz formalized the conversation as a debate and started marking points for the most persuasive arguments on the board. It was a good discussion, and Bella was honestly interested in Mike's point of view, but she found it hard to concentrate. The butterflies on the map weren't moving. _Oh, God, are they all dead?_

When the final bell rang, Mrs. Kranz collected the essays on their Seniors with Seniors partners. As the class was leaving, she called to Lauren. "Where's your paper?"

At this point, Angela dropped her pencil on the floor with a wink that would have seemed lewd if Bella hadn't known her better. "Help me?" she said, crawling under her desk.

_What the heck?_ Bella picked up the pencil for her. Angela dropped it again. _Ohhhh... _Bella crawled under the desk, too.

"Where's your paper?" said the teacher.

Well, explained Lauren, it was not done yet. Maybe it would never be done. But this wasn't her fault because her partner was impossible to work with.

"He's vulgar. He lies to me. He smacks his chair into my shins."

"Mm, hmm," said Mrs. Kranz.

"He swears at me. I'm a nice girl, and he swears at me. The only time I was able to get some notes on him, he dropped cottage cheese on my paper. On purpose, I'm pretty sure."

"Uh, huh."

"He's got little bits of tissue stuck to his face from shaving. Badly. It's gross. His eyes are squinty. I need an extension. Or like, an extra-credit project instead."

"Because?"

"Because he smells like cabbage. Seriously. I mean, come on."

Mrs. Kranz rose from her chair, rapping the pages of everyone else's essays on her desk to make a tight, tidy stack. She wasn't a tall woman, and she wasn't beautiful. Her pants were usually wrinkled, and her faded red hair was always frowsy and out of place. But for what she lacked in height, she made up in bulk, and for what she lacked in appearance she made up in the force of her intellect. Which included, Bella realized, a sadistic little bit of schadenfreude that might have seemed inappropriate in a teacher if it were directed at her. But hey, thought Bella, she was on Kranz's good side.

"Your paper loses one letter grade each day it's late," she said to Lauren. "And next time you're at the nursing home, say hello to your partner for me. He's my uncle."

Angela cracked her head into a leg of her desk as she scrambled out from under it, and she and Bella skittered into the hall.

"Second grade!" said Angela. "I've been waiting for something like that to happen since second grade." She leaned against her locker, rubbing her forehead. "Worth it. So worth it."

_Ah, _thought Bella, _maybe this is a good day after all. _She leaned against her own locker, her sides shaking with silent laughter. The metal felt cool on her cheek. Like an anchor as her head spun. _I love you, locker. _

"Hey," said Angela, digging in her backpack. "I made you something." She had wrapped it in flowery paper with a little blue bow.

Bella opened it to find a lump of red yard, held together with stitches of varying size and form. She turned it from side to side.

"It's a hat," explained Angela.

"Oh!" Yes, it did look like a hat. There was a hole in the bottom almost the size of her head. "I love it," she said. _Why am I crying?_ "Thank you."

"That's so funny," said a voice behind them, and they turned to see Mike digging in his own backpack. "I got you something, too."

He hadn't wrapped it, and it was still enclosed in the plastic bag it must have been shipped in, but Bella could see that it was exactly the same hat as the one she'd lost.

"Get OUT!" said Angela, walloping him in the arm.

"Ow!"

"Oh, you guys," said Bella, using Angela's hat to mop some of her tears. She felt dizzy as she held open her arms to embrace them both at once. "Frennnzzz!"

Jessica slammed her locker a little too loud across the hall. When Lauren hustled her away with a black look over her shoulder at Mike, and when Mike hurried after them, the moment was slightly ruined. But only slightly. Frenz were good.

* * *

><p>When Bella got home at dinner time, that good feeling she'd had since lunch had worn off. She'd visited Vera and come away unsettled.<p>

After reading about her family in the _Hoquiam Herald_, Bella had wanted to do something nice for her. She thought that with those milky eyes, it might be hard for Vera to read, so she'd brought _Wuthering Heights._ Unfortunately—or perhaps, Bella thought, unsurprisingly—Vera was asleep when she arrived.

At first, she hadn't wanted to read aloud for fear of disturbing her. Albertine was out, so she'd puttered around the small room looking at the grandkids' pictures and the romance novels on Albertine's bookcase. She was tempted to flip through them looking for the naughty bits, but that just made her think of Jake. She wished she _wouldn't _ think of him, but she did, and her stomach clenched with fear and nausea. She couldn't stand this. Tomorrow she would talk to him. And she would tell him— Oh, she had no idea. Someone was going to get hurt, no matter what she said.

She slipped into the chair next to Vera's bed. "You understand, don't you?" she whispered. If Albertine had been there, she never would have spoken like this. Maybe if Vera had been awake, she still wouldn't have. "You understand why I can't?"

Vera's eyelids fluttered.

Opening the novel, Bella read to her quietly. She saw the moors, bleak and gray. The hard stone of Cathy's home, and the white paneled walls of the Grange. She saw Heathcliff, the dark boy, poor, unwanted, alone; and and she saw Edgar Linton, the fair one, wealthy and well-educated, connected to the finest family in their sad, lonely corner of England. "I _am_ Heathcliff," said Cathy. "He's always, always in my mind." Yet she denied him her heart, and the boy who was almost her brother turned cruel. Bella had read the book twice before, and only now was she able to see it. This wasn't a love story.

"It's about loss," she whispered to Vera. "She was wrong. But I don't think I can do it, I can't, I can't."

Vera rolled over in her sleep. She burrowed deeper in her blankets, as if trying to get warm, and she moaned a single word, a name. Not Cathy or Heathcliff, not even Albertine or Bella. "Edgar," she said. "Edgar."

Bella had left a note on Vera's table. _I'll find a better book for you. Something you'll like. See you Monday. _And she had driven home feeling inexplicably sad.

It was a balm to see Charlie in the kitchen. He'd taken one look at her face and hugged her whether she liked it or not, squeezing her to his side as he stirred a pot of soup on the stove. He didn't ask her what was wrong this time; he just held her, and that was as much as she could stand. After a long moment, he tipped her chin up to look in her face and asked why she smelled like pot.

"Oh," she floundered. "It's not me."

"It is. Don't think I don't know what that smells like."

She sniffed her hair, her shirt sleeve. "It was these art kids at lunch," she protested.

"I'm going to believe that once," said Charlie. He ladled the soup into bowls and set them on the table. "And if there's a second time I'm bringing dogs to your room."

The soup was delicious. Hot and rich, the broth flavored with rosemary and cracked pepper. _Fresh_ rosemary, she noted. Suddenly she was ravenous.

"Not you, huh?" said Charlie.

She managed a smile. The soup really was incredible. Half-moons of celery. Carrots cut cross-ways, not in lengths, to release more juices. How did he know this stuff? The chicken, too, was exceptionally good. She could tell it came not from some pieces in the freezer but from a whole bird, roasted before it was deboned. And there were noodles. Not the weird bits of leftover pasta her mom would have tossed in, but actual noodles—thick and firm egg noodles, like the kind made in Eastern Europe.

"So good," she managed in between spoonfuls. "Have you been watching—"

"No," said Charlie. He sat back in his chair and watched her eat, an odd quirk to his mustache. "Have a roll," he said, pushing a little basket toward her.

The rolls were soft and buttery, and they were wrapped in an unfamiliar bright pink dishtowel.

"Listen," said Charlie. "I've been needing to talk to you about something. Two things, actually."

"Work?" She took a second roll and dipped it in her soup. The sparing use of the celery was brilliant. Too much and the flavor would have overwhelmed the broth.

Charlie said yes, he did need to talk about work. The search wasn't going well. Matt Hathaway's party had made no further progress upriver than they'd made the previous day. The horses were hard to control and the dogs took off running after something, and one of them didn't come back. A couple of the rangers asked to be taken off the assignment. Charlie was starting to think they were looking for something more than the missing hiker.

"Something?" said Bella. Her pulse quickened.

"Someone," Charlie amended. "Maybe a serial killer. A survivalist. Someone who won't come out of the woods."

"A serial killer?"

"I hope not." He was watching her. Or was she imagining that? She kept her eyes on her bowl. "Do not go into the woods," he said, each word clear and cold. "Do not."

She had to get up. At the stove, she folded one of her mother's yellow towels into a pad and used it to pick up the kettle's lid. With her back to him, she ladled a second helping into her bowl, trying to focus her gaze on the tiny blue flames of the gas burning under the kettle.

This was impossible. Impossible. But a part of her knew that nothing was impossible, not after discovering the Cullens.

The park service, said Charlie, was closing access to the entire Hoh Valley. And Charlie, hesitant to force his men into a job they didn't want, had been looking for other ways to continue the search. Billy had called him at the station a few hours ago. Charlie said he'd long ago given up asking why Billy knew more about the gossip in Forks than he did. But it came in handy sometimes.

"He said some of the boys from La Push are interested in careers in law enforcement. The park service is turning over the investigation to me—and Carrington, in Port Angeles—and I'm going to deputize a couple of them. Get them on the payroll."

"Who?" asked Bella. Her heart pounding, all she could think was, _Not Jake. Not Jake._

"Uley," said her father. "And Lahote. You know him. Nice guy."

_Paul, a nice guy? _

Her father went on to say that Billy had insisted these young men could be useful since they'd grown up here and liked to spend a lot of time hiking and camping.

"They do?"

"Sure. Sam knew the trails well enough to find _you_, didn't he?"

She grimaced.

"I called them both into the station this afternoon. And I was frank with them. I'm not going to send young people into a situation where grown men won't go. If there's any trouble, I'm pulling them out. But they seemed to know what they're getting into."

She heard the creak of his chair as he sat back, tipping it onto two legs, and she knew he was folding his arms across his chest. It was his habit to do so whenever he was thinking out loud. And he rarely thought out loud. "Seems to me they know what they're getting into."

How could he say the same words twice and mean different things? Why did she still feel like he was watching her back? "What was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about?"

Charlie leaned forward in his chair again. "Haven't got to the first thing yet." She turned around, and then she felt the blood drain from her face as he explained that he'd invited his new deputies to come by the house tomorrow for coffee, and he'd appreciate it if she could show them some hospitality. "I figured after you trash a guy's truck, the least you could do is bake him a few cookies."

"What?"

"He says he likes chocolate chip."

"No! I'm not going to make cookies for—"

"Or I could just handcuff you and toss you in the tank for a few hours." She stared at him until she saw his face soften. "Come on, Bells," he said. "This situation is a little awkward for me, professionally. They're willing to help. My daughter kicked the shit out of—"

Ugh, life was so not fair. She groaned her acquiescence. She supposed she could make some stupid cookies for Sam. But not Paul. And she didn't even bat an eye when her father explained that by a few cookies, he meant a few dozen. Maybe a few hundred. Sam had claimed to have a very big appetite and a lot of hungry friends.

"Fine," she grumbled. "I'll call Angela and her mom. What's the other thing?"

"Oh, that," he began, but he didn't get to finish because Bella squeaked suddenly. Somehow, she must have nudged the yellow towel she'd used as a pot holder too close to the stove. Her arm felt the heat and she jumped away from the little heap of cotton, now flaming on the countertop.

"Do something," said Charlie, most unhelpfully.

She pulled open a drawer, grabbed several more yellow towels, and dropped them on the fire to smother it. They ignited as well. She got a spatula and tried to beat down the flames, but after a moment she realized she had only succeeded in fanning them. The little heap of cotton had quadrupled in size and magnitude, threatening the underside of one of the cupboards.

"Do something else!" said Charlie.

"You do something!" she retorted. She grabbed another towel to wave the smoke away from the cupboard, but the fire continued to grow. It blazed as merrily as any Christmas yule log, leaping with the bright, cheery flames that are born of easy fodder, like wrapping paper and ribbons—or twenty-year-old threadbare towels. "Help!"

"I'm a cop, not a fireman!"

Black smoke billowed toward the ceiling, and the alarm over their heads emitted an ear-splitting series of beeps.

"Stop fanning it!" said Charlie.

"What?" shouted Bella.

He filled a cup at the sink and splashed the water at the towels, but it wasn't enough to douse the flames. Instead, it became a little flood that separated the towels and sent them sliding to several different places on the counter.

_Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!_ went the alarm. And then the doorbell sounded: _Bing bong!_

"Shit," said Charlie. "She's early."

"What?"

_Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!_

"Ah!" cried Bella. "My shirt!"

Charlie spun her around and whipped the flannel from her shoulders before the flaming sleeve could do more than frighten her. But then, out of some hideous instinct that she supposed she had inherited, he flung it in exactly the wrong place: onto the burning towels.

_Bing bong!_ went the doorbell.

Bella watched her red and white shirt flare up, way up, the flames truly touching the undersides of the cupboards now, and she could only stand there in her tank top, transfixed, wondering if all her flannels would burn that way. Then an elbow to her ribs knocked her aside.

In less than thirty seconds, Joy Ateara turned off the burner and pulled her own shirt over her head, using it to protect her hands from the hot kettle as she shifted it to the other side of the stove. Then she pulled a cookie sheet from the broiler pan and swept all the towels onto the stove top, neatly dropping the sheet to smother them.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" she said to Charlie. "You really know how to show a girl a good time!"

Mrs. Ateara seemed awfully familiar with the location of pans in this kitchen. In fact— Bella looked at the soup. The fire alarm, still shrilling overhead, was nothing compared to the horror bursting in her mind.

Laughing, Mrs. Ateara leaned on Bella's shoulder. Then she made a face and said, "Oh, girl. You smell like the seventies."

_Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! _

Bella put her fingers in her ears, but she could still hear Joy hollering that she would bring some pamphlets on drug abuse from her office. Charlie smirked at her as Joy shouted, "Where's the broom, Chuck?"

_Chuck?_ Her stupefaction must have shown on her face.

"That's what we called him in high school," Joy shouted. "Because he was such a good—"

"Broom's in the closet," said Charlie.

With one expert swoop, Joy knocked the alarm from the ceiling. When it dropped into her hands she popped the batteries out and tossed them to Bella. She was too stunned to catch them and they bounced off her chest.

"Whew!" said Mrs. Ateara, wiping her brow. "I need a new shirt."

Only then did Bella notice that her plump and perky bosom was barely contained in a bright red lacy bra. And her father wasn't blushing.

"Oh, don't you all rush to help me!" she laughed. "I can help myself." She trotted upstairs and came down again in one of Charlie's T-shirts. She wasn't blushing either.

"Don't wait up," said Charlie.

Bella did not follow them to the door. And she prayed that the little smack she heard before they stepped outside was not, please God, her father's hand on Mrs. Ateara's ass.

Bella opened the kitchen window and pressed her face to the screen. She didn't care if it made weird grid marks on her face; she needed to breathe. The smoke drifted past her, making strange swirly patterns in the evening air, and she sagged against the screen, gasping like a fish. As Mrs. Ateara backed out of the driveway in her pink Fiesta, Charlie beside her, she wiggled her fingers at Bella as if to say, "Toodle-oo!" In the drawer beside the stove, not a single one of her mother's yellow towels was left.

Bella had never been particularly religious. She never believed in the things Carlisle and Edward believed in, like souls and heaven. But now, coughing in the smoky kitchen, drawing in ragged breaths at the window, she sent out a most sincere prayer to whatever deity would listen, whether Jesus or Mary or Zeus or Thor or that thing from _Ghostbusters _that lived in Sigourney Weaver's refrigerator: _Kill me now._

The phone rang. Bella was almost afraid to pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey." It was Quil. "Please," he said. "Please tell me my mom's not over there."

"No," said Bella. "She's not here."

Quil didn't say anything else. Neither did she. She slid down the wall and cradled the phone against her shoulder. She looked at her fingernails. They were kind of dirty. The floor was a little dirty, too. Somehow she knew that Quil was looking at his own kitchen floor. In his breath, she could hear all the things that neither of them wanted to say. After a while, very gently, he hung up the phone.

She climbed the stairs to her room, stripped to her underwear, and slid between rumpled sheets that smelled like tears and sweat. Tomorrow she would talk to Jacob. He'd be expecting it. Somehow, she'd figure out what to say. Maybe she would tell him everything. Not about the Cullens, exactly, but everything else. The forest, her nightmares, Charlie, Alice, Edward. The way she clenched up inside and felt so sick. How much it would hurt to grow closer to him and then watch him change his mind. He would hold her hand and listen, his eyes soft and serious. He would understand.

She pulled her quilts over her, burrowing, trying to get warm. She hoped Charlie wasn't making a mistake. She hoped she wasn't about to make one, either.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Note: <em>**_ I'd like to thank the many new readers who discovered my story since Chapter 21. Also, thanks to those kind and thoughtful folks who left comments for me on the last chapter or two: YuYuChan, livelovedream, Amory Bolina, wayliz, Mrs. , GillGirl, kselzer, naynay87, Beaches of La Push, deletemyaccount4657987654321 (geez, how do you log in? :-), pingou, IceQueen2012, klarsen117, Jane, YouHaveGOT2BeKiddingMe, AlexandraG, Chat1, GlassHeart1993, Zayide, tonyamic10, WackyWisher, firecewolf, Gillian Cooke, sisteria27, LunarWarrior098, ilovefanfic, Eludain, annawillows, twilightlover212, aubrette, GeorgeGlass, LCB, echo58, snow eopard, Zayide, Farrah B, and MissPoisonedAddiction1. If I left anyone out, I'm sorry!_

_And special thanks to leelator, Miacakes, klarsen, feebes86, and PastOneonta, who commented on each chapter! Thank you. That is a precious gift to a writer._

**_Study Questions? _**_I am not sure what to ask you about, dear readers. But I would very much like to hear your opinions. I tried to make this chapter focus on clues to various mysteries, both solved in these pages and not-yet solved. How far ahead did you see Mrs. Ateara coming? Did you notice any clues or resolutions to other mysteries? (I hope I wrote it well enough for people to notice stuff.) What's your opinion on Joy and Chuck? Has Bella made any "progress" in her thoughts about Jake? If you want to strangle her (or me), please read about my angst in the five month process of writing this chapter in "Bella's Guitar Extras" Chapter 4._

_I hope I'll hear from you. Thank you. I shall give all reviewers a preview of Chapter 23. _


	23. Chapter 23 Heart to Heart

**_Author's Note:_** Thanks to Justme and Jane, guest reviewers. If you are able to sign in, I would like to write to personally thank you and offer a preview of the next chapter. Also thanks to jharv241, DarkSouthernBelle, dancingbarefoot, and Maxsmomma, awesome new readers who reviewed all or almost all the chapters. Dang, thanks. And thanks to long-time and new readers who commented on Chapter 22: Zayide, ThoseRainyDays, feebes86, Chat1, Jane, firecewolf, klarsen117, nothinwrong2013, WackyWisher, ilovfanfic, jesterjam, LCB, RavishMyHeart, weekaa1313, the dr donna, Nurserachet, Pingou, tifo, twilightlover212, ScarlettSox, agirlwhoneedssomeone8, Beaches of La Push, JasmineElliott, Miacakes, MissPoisonedAddiction1, Jena2013, kmcwherter, tonyamic10, Crazy kitten, Micah's Moonbeam, and randyzoopurple.

_**Worth mentioning:**_ At the beginning of Chapter 22, I wrote a "steamy" scene that turned out to be "just a dream." Later, I thought it was out of character, so I changed it. If you are interested, you could look back at the beginning of that chapter for a different dream scene more in keeping with my Bella's brain, I think. No significant plot alternation will have occurred because of this change.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Three<strong>

**"Heart to Heart"**

The supermarket in Forks was next to Newton's Outfitters. This made shopping for cookie ingredients a little tricky. Bella had called in sick, begging Mrs. Newton to switch her Saturday morning shift to Sunday and feeling like a jerk the whole time they talked. She couldn't have managed the lie in a face to face conversation. Now she had to figure out how to get in and out of the grocery store undetected. It would be especially difficult because in a small town with few large buildings, the grocery store being "next to" Newton's Outfitters actually meant that the two businesses shared one enormous pole barn on the south end of town. Only the cereal aisle separated her from her employer.

The first of her difficulties involved parking her truck. Could she just drive up to the front door? Certainly not. The red beast she drove, with its roaring and sputtering, gave new meaning to the term monster truck. She had to park a block away to avoid any of the Newtons' hearing her engine. Then she hurried across the lot, wearing not her signature red coat but an ugly brown fleece of Charlie's and an old purple Huskies baseball cap she'd found on the floor of the coat closet. It was the sort of disguise she'd seen celebrities in magazines adopt to avoid the paparazzi, but she felt more like a jittery gangster about to rob a bank.

Once inside, she rolled her cart quickly through the aisles. She had the layout of the store memorized, having taken over the Swan grocery duties when she arrived last winter. Flour. Sugar. Butter. She loaded the cart with several packages of each, hoping none of her neighbors would notice her and mention her to Mrs. Newton. Brown sugar. Eggs. Baking Soda. Baking Powder. The vanilla extract was high on a shelf, and she had to balance with her toes on the lowest shelf to reach it. Jacob could have gotten it for her.

_Ugh, Jacob. _Billy had called early that morning to talk to Charlie, and he'd passed on a message saying that Jacob hoped she could stop by the garage in the afternoon. The thought made her stomach flip. She still hadn't figured out what to say to him.

Her shopping cart grew heavy. In the baking aisle, she tossed in a dozen packages of chocolate chips and then stood staring at the bagged nuts. Was Sam allergic to them? She hoped not. Pecans were her secret ingredient. Ground coarsely, they added unexpected crunch and sweetness. And if she toasted them first, they tasted like heaven. _Hmm..._ She would not toast them for Sam. But she would include them, and if he died of apoplexy, that would be his own fault.

At the checkout counter, the clerk said brightly, "That'll be ninety-one dollars and seventeen cents."

_Awesome. _There went two whole afternoons' pay from her crummy job. Most reluctantly, she handed over her debit card.

Getting back to her truck presented a new challenge. She couldn't carry five bags, heavy with flour and sugar sacks, through the lot and down one block to the truck. She also couldn't make off with the cart; there were four large signs at the perimeter of the parking lot declaring, in red letters a foot high, that persons attempting to do so would be reported to the police. She didn't suppose Charlie would appreciate bailing her out for theft when she was already in trouble for vehicular assault—or at least, assault on a vehicle. But it started to sprinkle, and before the flour could turn to glue, she dashed out into the lot, the cart's wheels clattering over the pocked asphalt. She had nearly made it to the corner when the Newton family Suburban—considerably newer and shinier than the Clearwaters'—pulled into her path.

Mike hopped down from the cab. "What the heck are you doing?"

"Shh!" she begged. "I have to make cookies for this guy—"

"I could be sleeping, right now."

Bella realized that his mother must have pressed him into her shift. "I'm so sorry." She tried to explain about Sam.

Mike looked appalled. "Remind me never to piss you off." He walked with her to her truck and helped her load the groceries inside. "You owe me."

"I know, I know. Could you take this back to the store for me?"

As he walked away with the cart, she thought that she ought to make some cookies for him, too.

At home again, she shrugged out of Charlie's old coat and donned her red one. He was lacing up his boots, preparing to go down to the station to organize another search party. The team wasn't going very far up the trail this morning, he said, and he'd be back for lunch with his new deputies.

"I want you here at noon. With your atonement."

"Hardy har har," she muttered.

When he had gone, she tossed his old baseball cap back into the coat closet and squeezed her head into the strange little hat Angela had made. She didn't mind a bit how it pinched her ears. This hat, with all its snags and tangles, was more beautiful than all the silk dresses Alice had so carelessly bought her. When she arrived at the church, Angela's smile at seeing her wear it made her feel fiercely proud of her friend.

"I love this hat," she declared.

Angela held open the door. She was wearing a bright green sweater and had piled her hair on top of her head in a thick coil. As Bella carried in the bags, she told her that she looked pretty.

"No," said Angela, smoothing her hands over her bun. "This is my baking hair-do. I look like somebody's grandma."

"It's very pretty," Bella insisted. She said it made her neck look longer and her ears look delicate. She knew Angela was sensitive about her height, so she tried to tell her that she looked elegant.

"You make me sound like a giraffe," she groaned, but she smiled.

Bella took off her hat and coat and laid them over a chair as Angela helped her unpack the groceries. They set the butter on a tray on top of one of the ovens, which Angela had preheated, so it could soften. Then they began assembling bowls, spatulas, spoons, measuring cups, and baking sheets. She enjoyed settling down to work in the cheery kitchen with its clean, white tile countertops. It made her feel fresh and energetic.

Fortunately, at some point in the not too distant past, the church had invested in a heavy duty Hobart ten-quart mixer. Bella estimated that only six or seven batches of dough from its giant bowl would make nearly five hundred cookies. She read the recipe on the back of a bag of chocolate chips and multiplied the proportions by twenty. Then she tore open a package of sugar and dumped eight cups into the mixer.

Angela hopped up on the counter as they worked. She sat cross-legged in her jeans, wearing white socks printed with clovers that she said her brothers had given her last Saint Patrick's Day. She rolled her eyes at them, but conceded that they matched her sweater nicely and that her brothers were sweet. Yesterday, she said, those little monsters had tried to make fudge, and the only reason they were still alive was that they'd chosen to make it here, in the annex, and not in the house. They'd used up all the cocoa their mother had set aside for the Valentine's Day candy she planned to make, and they'd let their mess boil over so bad that they'd had to wash the floor as well as the stove. The worst part was that the fudge was still in the freezer.

"The freezer?"

"It wouldn't set. Later we can have fudge soup."

"Well, have them call me next time. I can make fudge."

"Really? You'd voluntarily hang out with my little brothers?"

Bella thought about that. A few weeks ago, she wouldn't have wanted to hang out with _anyone _except Jacob. But things were getting better. Maybe she would actually enjoy doing something nice for somebody—she looked into the mixing bowl—even if her father didn't force her to do it. Reading to Vera had been nice. Making Jake's birthday cake had been nice.

"Sure," she said. "I would."

Angela smiled at her again.

_I'm not selfish,_ she thought, no matter what Billy had said. Or maybe, she amended, _because_ of what Billy had said.

Angela wanted to know why she needed to bake so many cookies, and perhaps because they were in a church, her story felt like a confession. It was much harder than telling Mike. For one thing, she thought Angela deserved the long version. And for another, she cared much more about what Angela thought of her. As she spoke, she realized it was the first time she had articulated, even to herself, the details of exactly what she had done. Angela listened with an expression of horrified bewilderment.

Like lancing a wound, getting it all out was both an agony and a relief. She omitted nothing, not her shrieking, not the shock on Sam's face, not the way the glass had cracked like the thick, midwinter ice of a pond after a hard fall. Not even the way she had thought of Edward. The only thing she couldn't describe was the look on Charlie's face.

"He had to grab me from behind. He knocked me over." She looked into the bowl, butter and sugar swirling together, and her dislike of Sam suddenly seemed petty and shameful. How could any number of cookies make this right? "I feel so bad," she sniffed.

"Um," ventured Angela, "God forgives you?"

"You think?"

"Sure. Maybe He'll send a sign."

A bold pounding on the door made them jump. Bella wiped her hands across her eyes as she crossed the room. "Maybe it's an angel," whispered Angela with a wink. "Or my mom." When Bella opened the door, however, all they saw was Leah Clearwater.

"How's my favorite badass girl?"

_Not an angel._

Leah said she had come to town with her father, and Charlie had directed her here. When Bella protested that she ought to have called instead of toiling all the way across town, Leah rolled her eyes.

"It's only six blocks. And have you seen these guns?" Taking off her jacket, she rolled up her sleeves and flexed an impressive pair of biceps. "This wheelchair is a twelve hour upper body workout. Check this out, too." She lifted her shirt to show an equally amazing set of abs. "It's like I'm not even trying."

_Wow. _She remembered Quil's tree-climbing slug impersonation. His gut certainly didn't look like that.

After introductions, her friends seemed to get along great. Angela was quick to trust, and Leah was the kind of person who liked everyone, confidently assuming they'd like her, too. She was glad to help with the baking, lifting herself onto the counter beside Angela to sift the flour, baking soda, and salt together in another large bowl. She drummed her cast feet on the cupboards, thump, thump, thump. As Bella watched her laughing, she thought that this was the Leah that Jake and Quil had always known, the girl they wanted to kick Sam's ass over. She was crass, loud, profane, impulsive, and entirely unsuitable to be left in a kitchen unsupervised, but also charming, smart, and funny. And possibly, Bella suspected, capable of being sweet. Her eyes were bright, so different from the way they'd looked as the two of them knelt in the snow in Billy's driveway, right before she'd picked up the crutch.

_I did this!_ she realized. It made her feel a little better about the truck. _I did this because I was a badass... psycho bitch! _

She supposed she got that from Renee.

"So," said Leah, as Bella was sliding the first tray of cookies into the oven, "what's up with you and His Royal Hotness?"

"Who's this?" said Angela.

Leah looked at Bella, who just dropped her head into hands, and Leah took that as permission. "He's the Crown Prince of La Push," she said. "He's gorgeous. Tall, strong, athletic. He's got these eyes like you wouldn't believe. Makes people melt when he smiles. He's an honor roll student every quarter and a fucking wizard with a car. And he's a sweetheart. He likes sunsets and kittens and Bella."

"He does not like kittens," mumbled Bella.

"You'd be surprised."

"Oh, my God, Bella, why have you never mentioned him?" Angela dumped a bag of chocolate chips into her bowl.

"There's nothing to mention."

"Is this the birthday boy? We made all those cakes for him?"

While Bella insisted that making four hundred people's worth of birthday cake did not signify any special regard for a person, Angela quizzed Leah for more details: his name, his age, how long he'd been interested in Bella.

"Jacob Black. Sixteen. Forever."

Bella turned her back and dropped great big dollops of cookie dough onto another tray.

"This is the guy who took you motorcycle riding?" Angela pressed. "And he helped you when you crashed? And you bought him those T-shirts?"

Leah confirmed it.

"_You_ should date him," grumbled Bella.

"God, no. He's practically my brother."

_That _excuse sounded familiar. But she could tell Leah actually meant it.

"Oooooh..." said Angela. "I want to meet him."

"No," said Bella. "No, let's forget we ever talked about this."

"But he sounds so— Wait." Angela turned to Leah. "He's too perfect. Something's got to be wrong with him."

Leah shook her head sadly. "He can't explicate a sonnet to save his life. I thought he was going to hurt himself on Shakespeare last month. And he's a total softie chicken-shit when it comes to Bella. Won't make a move."

_Quil thinks he's making too many moves. And I agree._

"Is he shy?" asked Angela.

"Hardly."

"So what's the problem?"

Bella's companions turned to look at her, one with her mouth hanging open, astounded that Bella could reject such a suitor, and the other with a tentatively hopeful expression on her face. Bella tried to speak, but she could only think of Edward, the Cullens, her nightmares, and the hole in her chest that sucked the air from her lungs and the strength from her body. The hole that, sometimes, almost seemed healed—until she thought about moving on. Before she knew it, tears welled in her eyes.

"I can't," she said. "I just can't."

Angela put an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder.

"He's a good guy," said Leah. "You should try again."

"I can't." She rubbed a dishtowel across her nose. "Would you?"

Leah looked at the floor. "No," she finally admitted. "I guess I wouldn't either." She put a hand on Bella's knee.

"I would," said Angela. "I would try again."

Bella shook her head. As nicely as she could, she tried to explain that Angela didn't know what she'd been through. What Leah'd been through. "Ben didn't drop you in the woods. You weren't thinking about forever."

"You can't tell me how I felt. How I feel now." Her voice was quiet but firm. "But I would still try again."

Chastised, Bella bent over her tray again, and the three of them worked silently, side by side. Bella slid the warm cookies from the baking sheets with a spatula and placed them on the church's stainless steel cooling racks. She kept a close watch on the ovens, and each batch was toasted to a deep, golden brown, the chocolate chips melted, the pecans scenting the air with sweetness. Angela and Leah kept up a steady supply of dough, with Leah taking charge of the stirring and Angela spooning the dough onto the cookie sheets Bella kept circulating.

"You know," said Angela after a while, "Ben didn't even break up with me. He just stopped calling. Stopped emailing."

Leah opined that that was a shitty-ass thing to do.

"All I wanted in the world was for us to go to college together. I feel so stupid about it now."

"No, don't," said Leah. "Once, all I wanted in the world was to be Mrs. Samuel Uley. Pathetic, huh?" She told Angela about her plan to become Dr. Clearwater instead, and though Angela needed to have the term "ethno-musicologist" explained to her, she said that would be much better.

_Once, _thought Bella,_ all I wanted in the world was to be dead. _It sounded awful now.

"Another problem," said Angela, "is that he was scared of my father."

Bella found this hard to imagine. Reverend Weber, she said, was probably one of the nicest dads in Forks.

"Yes," said Angela. "Emphasis on the _Reverend _Weber. Do you know how hard it is to find a boyfriend when you're a PK? Ben didn't even go to church, and he was still afraid he'd go to hell for touching my boob."

"Angela!" Bella had never heard her talk that way.

"Well, it's true." She paused to swallow an enormous spoonful of cookie dough. Her face was pink, but nevertheless she said that she had been frustrated with the limits Ben's hesitation placed on their relationship. "I shouldn't ask, I know, and you don't have to answer, but—" her face was turning pinker "—did you ever, um, feel that way with Edward?"

Bella kept her eyes on the cookies. "Edward was very... old-fashioned." _Very OLD. _"Nothing _ever_ happened."

"Really? But he used to look at you like—"

"Nothing happened."

Angela sighed. "Maybe it'll be better for me next year. I'll be in college, I'll meet someone new, someone who has no idea that I'm a preacher's kid, and—" She laughed. "Maybe I'll just jump the first guy I meet who'll hold still."

"No!" said Bella, swatting her with her spatula. "You would not."

"I might."

Turning to the ovens again, Bella groaned inwardly. With the way things were now, she probably wouldn't _ever_ get to experience... that stuff. Would she miss it? She'd just have to forget about that kind of thing. After all, the way to a girl's heart was through her pants. One of her friends was uncharacteristically silent.

Around eleven o'clock, as Leah was blending chocolate chips into the last batch of dough, Mrs. Weber joined them. She wore her hair up, like Angela's, and she helped Bella line one of her enormous Tupperware boxes with paper towels. She shook hands with Leah, saying that she was pleased to meet her, and as she and Bella boxed the cookies, she explained that Charlie had called with a message for her.

Like most people in town, Mrs. Weber had been aware of the police department's search for the missing hiker. Charlie told her that his new deputies had been working hard in the woods all morning, and they'd decided to grab some pizza for an early lunch. He didn't need Bella to meet him at home until twelve-thirty. In the meantime, he wanted her to drive Leah to the diner where Harry was waiting for them.

"No problem," said Bella.

Mrs. Weber opened the freezer and took out a large stainless steel mixing bowl full of a solid brown mass. "Fudge soup," she explained, "chilled to an edible consistency." Before she left, she handed the girls some spoons and begged them to eat as much as possible so the twins wouldn't tear up the house on a sugar high.

When she had gone, Leah looked into her bowl of cookie dough. "New deputies?"

"Er, yes," said Bella. "Last weekend. After I, um... The truck. Charlie said I should—"

"You mean these are for Sam? I've been baking cookies for Sam?"

Bella nodded, cringing. Leah looked at her for a long, hard minute. Then she made a horrible rasping noise in the back of her throat and spat into the bowl. "_Now_ these are cookies for Sam."

* * *

><p>The diner was crowded and noisy with the tail end of the brunch crowd and the beginning of the lunch rush, but Harry had been able to save them a booth near the windows that looked onto the parking lot. He held up a hand at their entrance. Leah, after complaining loudly that the narrow doorway was <em>not <em>ADA-compliant, rolled to the table and complained loudly that it, too, was hardly handicapped accessible. She parked her wheelchair in the aisle with a black look at the waitresses who had to squeeze around it.

"It's not their fault," said Harry.

"I'd like to speak to the manager then," she declared.

The manager looked up from the cash register with an apologetic shrug.

_Ah, Forks, _sighed Bella. _So progressive._

In her truck, approximately five hundred cookies lay in Mrs. Weber's large box. In a paper bag lay a dozen more, for Mike, and in a smaller box lay the last two dozen to come out of the ovens. Bella had urged Leah to set aside that final batch, and Leah agreed to the concession as long as Angela could provide her with some festive trimmings. A red satin ribbon was now tied around the box, along with a gift tag printed with pinecones that had come out of the Webers' Christmas decorations. "For Sam," Leah had written. "Let's be friends."

Harry and Bella each ordered a cheeseburger and French fries. Leah ordered the lumberjack's special: two eggs over easy, two slices of toast, two sausages, two buttermilk pancakes, and four strips of bacon. When their food arrived, she looked at her plate and then at Bella's "Do you mind?" she asked, shoveling some of the French fries onto her own plate. Bella lifted her hands out of the way. Remembering the way Leah had downed a gallon of ice cream in one sitting, she did not intend to come between her and her food.

Harry looked tired, as tired as Charlie was looking these days. The lines around his mouth and eyes seemed deeper; his shoulders seemed heavier, held lower, under the old green canvas jacket he wore. He asked Bella if she realized how lucky she was that a bunch of cookies was her only punishment.

"If things were different," he said, "things would be different."

_Whatever THAT meant._

"As for you," he said to his daughter, "I'll be glad to see you away from all this. Next year. Look at this." He tossed a thick white envelope onto the table. There was a large blue M in the return address, and the postmark said Ann Arbor.

Leah drew one finger over her name. "I thought I wouldn't hear anything till April," she said quietly.

"Early Decision notifications." He said she didn't have to open it now. He'd picked it up this morning at their P.O. box in town.

Leah lifted a butter knife. Bella watched the girl who could kick out a headlight saw carefully, slowly, through the adhesive on the back flap. As she peeked into the envelope, her face changed, the color draining from her cheeks.

"Honey?" said Harry.

She shook her head and blew her nose into a napkin.

"It's okay," said Harry, but Bella could see a tear in his eye, too. "Maybe Washington. Or U of Oregon; that's a good school, too, isn't it? You'd be happy there?" He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. Then she crumpled up her napkin and threw it in his face.

"Ha! I got in."

"What?" He swatted the napkin away. "You—"

"I knew I would."

Harry laughed and turned to Bella. "This is your fault, you know."

Leaning back in her chair, Leah tossed the envelope at him. "Full ride. Dean's Something-or-Other Award. You look." While Harry spread the papers out, reading the terms of the scholarship, Leah stuffed her pancakes into her mouth in two bites and appropriated the second half of Bella's burger. "I am so out of here. I'm a Wolverine."

* * *

><p>Tea time with Sam and Paul wasn't nearly so bad as she had feared, mostly because they were too busy to stay long. In fact, in the end, the encounter amounted to nothing more than a very awkward conversation in the driveway.<p>

She had changed out of her baking clothes and dressed again in clean jeans and one of her new sweaters, a lavender one with a low, rounded neckline. She brushed her hair, smiling at herself in the bathroom mirror. It had been a long time since she felt pretty, and this sweater was... _Crap._ She'd be seeing Jacob in an hour and maybe she should wear something else, something hideous. Unfortunately, Charlie pulled up in the cruiser just then and honked his horn for her to come out. She swirled her red coat around her shoulders and stumped down the stairs. The cookie boxes sat on the coffee table. She picked them up and stepped out onto the porch, feeling as if she were taking an offering to a volcano in the hope that it wouldn't spew lava all over a village. Her palms were sweaty.

"Bells." Charlie clapped a hand on her shoulder.

"Dad." She shuffled her feet on the scuffed boards of the porch.

Sam arrived, the tires of his truck crunching over the graveled parking space beside the mailbox. She could see that the windshield had been replaced, good as new, and amazingly, the body of the truck seemed completely smoothed out and free of dents. The license plate had been screwed on again, and the driver's side mirror, which she'd left hanging by a wire, was only slightly crooked. The paint job, however, still left something to be desired. It lacked gloss, and in places it seemed to have been slathered on a little too thick.

Sam stepped down from the cab, his face carefully blank, expressionless. He was dressed in the same stark, black, state-issued pants her father wore and a black T-shirt. His dark hair was cut short, almost militarily practical. The muscles of his arms and chest stretched the shirt tight, and across one breast, in white letters, were the words, Forks PD.

Charlie said the investigation had gone better today, thanks to the help from Sam and Paul. The horses were less skittish, which he attributed to Sam's command in the saddle. One corner of Sam's mouth twitched in acknowledgement of the compliment. Paul, said her father, had declined to ride, but he'd kept up with the party on foot without complaint, despite all the miles they'd covered. Through the dark-tinted windows, Bella could make out the form of Paul sitting in the passenger seat of Sam's truck, staring straight ahead.

"Bella is extremely sorry about what she did to your truck," said Charlie.

She stepped off the porch, the boxes wobbling in her arms, before he could kick her foot. "I am," she said, looking at the ground. But that didn't seem good enough, not after talking with Angela, so she made herself look him in the eye. "I really, really am."

Sam leaned against the truck, his arms folded. He looked at her for a long time, until she feared her eyes were going to water, and just before that could happen he nodded. "Thank you."

"I made you some cookies." It felt like a scripted ceremony. She would hold out the boxes, he would take them, and she'd step back. The end.

But that didn't happen. As he took the boxes from her arms, the wind kicked up, blowing her hair in her face. She shivered. So naturally, she pulled Mike's new red hat out of her pocket and put it on. Sam burst into laughter. "Paul!" he said. "Get this."

In the cab, Paul turned his face to the window. She saw something flare behind his eyes.

"Get out here, Paul," laughed Sam, but Paul was already opening the door, sliding to the ground in one slick, smooth motion that reminded her of a snake.

"Paul is extremely sorry about what he did to your hat. Aren't you, Paul?"

Paul said nothing. He was dressed, she noticed, not in the black uniform of the police department, but in olive green slacks and an olive green broadcloth jacket. A wide-brimmed yellow hat lay on the dashboard, and upon his sleeve was embroidered the brown arrowhead symbol of the national park service. Sam thumped him on the back.

"Paul here's not eighteen yet."

"True," said Charlie. "I couldn't get him on the city payroll. But the Park was willing to hire him as a junior ranger."

"Worked out great, eh, Paul?"

Paul's lips peeled back from his teeth.

"Have a cookie," said Sam, opening the smaller box.

"Oh, no, wait!" cried Bella. She couldn't help it. But now everyone was looking at her, and she floundered to explain. "Those are, um, special ones."

He looked at the tag, and his eyes softened. "Really?"

She knew Leah would kill her if she messed this up, but she couldn't help the heat rising to her face. Sam wasn't looking at her, though. He read the tag once more, holding the box in his big hands, unwinding the red ribbon. He put his nose in the box and breathed deeply, closing his eyes, a sort of calm coming over his face. Then he pulled his head back sharply.

Leaning closer, Paul stuck his nose in the box as well. "Nice."

Sam closed the lid. He tossed the box into the truck bed, but he slipped the ribbon into his pocket.

"You're so fucked up, Sam."

"Get in the truck."

"No."

"_Get in the truck, Paul."_

"No." He laughed, a bright, sharp sound that startled the sparrows in the tree at the side of the yard. As they flew away, he picked up a stone from the curb and fired it after them with a vicious snap of his arm. One of them fell to the ground. He turned to Bella. His smile was like a knife.

"We need to get going," said Sam. "Chief. Bella." He put the larger cookie box into the cab and muscled Paul toward the door. When he wouldn't get in, Sam delivered a quick jab to the gut that made Paul double over, his face gone white. Even then, Paul kept his eyes locked onto hers. As they drove away, he leaned from the window. He took a bite from one of her cookies and spat it in the grass. He wiped his mouth on his arm, watching her, watching her, until they rounded the corner at the end of the block.

When she turned around, she saw that Charlie was watching her, too.

"You want to tell me what that was about?"

She had no idea. Maybe she didn't want to know.

"I have to get going, too," she said. "Um, Jacob." She backed toward her truck. "Dinner. I'll be back for dinner?" Why did that sound like a question? Why was her heart pounding so bad? "I'll be back for dinner."

Charlie stood on the porch. He watched her back out of the driveway, and though she waved to him, a nervous flutter of her hand, he didn't wave back. He stood completely still, and she knew his mind was turning in that dark, silent way of his. It was why he was the Chief. His mind moved underwater for days, weeks, alone, and when it surfaced, something would change.

* * *

><p>The ancient giants that once stood between Forks and La Push were gone. Western hemlock. Red cedar. Douglas fir. Sitka spruce. She had learned their names in Mrs. Kranz's class and their forms in her races through the forest with Edward. The pines still stood in the Park. The road to La Push, however, lay outside those boundaries, and the land on either side flickered past in a patchwork of third and fourth growth managed timberland and acres of butchered stumps.<p>

There was a place, halfway there, where the land on either side for a mile had been clear cut. Charlie made her stop there once. She'd stood on the side of the road as he clambered over the tangle of branches, some still tasseled with green needles, to the stumps. Too big to be sawed down at once, the trees had been cut in sections, the loggers removing wedges, until they fell. Charlie had stood on one stump that was about as big around as their dining room table, scanning the field. Then he carried one of the wedges back to the truck. Irregulars, he said. Salvage wood. He'd filled her truck bed with these enormous pieces and dropped them in Billy's yard to season. He did stuff like that for him sometimes.

There had been no way she could have climbed over that logged land without twisting an ankle, so she'd simply lowered the tailgate for him and stepped out of the way. Rain had been falling, mingling with the scent of the cedar and soaking into the heartwood. Bright orange. Burnished red. It almost seemed still alive.

Driving past these acres now, as clouds were amassing overhead, she could only think of how she was trying to grow her life back together.

She still hadn't figured out what to say to Jacob. He was waiting for her. Maybe he'd be smiling like he'd been on Thursday night, his cheeks pink, and all she'd have to do was give him her hand. Her stomach lurched.

_Okay, Jake, listen. I've been thinking. You know how sometimes you do things before you've thought them through? I don't know why I kept that sock. It doesn't mean what you think it means._

It hurt to picture his face falling.

_When Edward left, I— I can't sleep, Jake. I can't sleep at night. If we— If you—_

That hurt, too.

_I was really cold. It was dark, impossibly dark, so dark you couldn't even measure it because there was no light anywhere else to compare. I was very cold, and bleeding, I think, from my feet. Maybe my hands. I don't know. It was cold, and dark, and I was bleeding on the ground._

That hurt in a different way. She wasn't sure she could say those things to anyone but Leah.

Oh, this was really hard.

_Jake. Hi. Whenever I think about, uh, certain things, I just... Have you ever had a really bad stomachache? Like, have you ever eaten five chili-cheese dogs at once?_

That probably wouldn't work either. Before she knew it, she was pulling into Billy's driveway. She cut the engine and sat there in the gravel between the house and the garage, her hands still stuck to the steering wheel. The yard was quiet. No lights on in the house. The gray sky had only gotten grayer, and now it was starting to sprinkle again. Leaning forward over the steering wheel, she pressed her forehead against her knuckles and just tried to breathe.

About ten minutes later, a knock on the door made her squeak. Jacob had his hands on his hips, and he did not look happy. She rolled down the window.

"I knew you'd be like this."

She tried to look up at him, but he'd grown taller again. Just as well. She addressed her words to the buttons on his blue Henley. "Like what?"

"Weird."

She groaned into her hands. "Listen," she began. "The, um, the s—" Oh, she couldn't even say the word. She curled her fingers around the steering wheel again. Was it too late to go home?

"Forget the sock. Now get out. No weirdness."

She darted her eyes to the side. His shirt was coming closer, filling the window as he leaned on his arm against the roof.

"Get out," he repeated.

When she hesitated, he pulled open the door. Slipping one arm under her legs and the other around her back, he turned her upside down over his shoulder and marched toward the garage.

"Ack!" she cried. Her hair swung in her face. She thought about smacking him, but the only place she could reach was his— "Put me down!"

"No weirdness!" he sang. "Best friends!" He had less compunction about smacking her ass.

"Jake!"

In the garage he dumped her on the old minivan bench and ruffled his hand over her hair until it was frizzy and snarled. Then he kicked at her feet until she drew them up on the bench. He slid his toolbox from underneath.

"Lube?"

_Oh, my God. _"That's weird, Jake, that's definitely—"

"In the box, Bells."

She found it as soon as she opened the box, but she kept her head down and pretended to look for it until she was reasonably sure her face was no longer red.

"Sorry. That was cheap." He kicked another box at her and asked her to find a rag that wasn't totally gummed up already. "Seriously, though, don't get weird on me." He propped up the hood of the Rabbit. "Torque wrench?"

"Uh..."

"It's got a ruler on one end. Pointy stick, too." He took the tool from her and bent over the engine. She watched him tighten some greasy thingies, slowly, with much staring. He loosened a few others. His hair fell forward over his shoulders, hiding his face. "I was afraid you wouldn't even come here today."

She had considered it.

Pulling her knees up on the bench, she looked around the garage. It was cold, like always, but it seemed different today. At some point, Quil had returned the bikes he'd hidden in his grandfather's shed. They stood on their kickstands in the back, half-covered by an old wool blanket. It might have been the one Quil had flung over her head at the party. The parts Jake had bought in Hoquiam lay spread out on the floor on a ratty orange towel, arranged by size. She had no idea what they were, besides round, and there was some kind of tube encased in a stainless steel mesh. What seemed different today was everything else. The floor hadn't been swept. Drawers hung open on the workbench. Billy's strings of lights had been yanked from the rafters and kicked into a corner, pulled down with enough force that dozens of tiny bulbs had popped off, scattered all over the floor.

"I've been thinking a lot about what to say." He kept his eyes on the engine. "Yesterday I would have said something else. But today— Bells, we have to talk about this. I'm sorry."

"No," she whispered.

"Yes. Believe it or not, I'm about to make you very happy." He pushed his hair out of his eyes and then looked at his greasy hands. "Damn it," he muttered. He asked her for a rag. As he wiped his hands, she looked at him. Really looked at him. His jeans were dirty. His faded blue thermal shirt was rumpled; there was something yellow on one sleeve, maybe mustard. His tennis shoes were soaked. His hair was snarled, uncombed, and his eyes were red and puffy.

"Jake, what's wrong?"

"Promise me. Promise you won't act weird about the sock."

She stared at him. He tossed the rag on the floor and came to face her, leaning against the driver's door, his arms folded across his chest. She found herself imitating his posture, looking up at him. It felt like a standoff.

"Promise."

"Okay..."

"No, promise." He made her say the words. She was thinking that this was ridiculous; she could never _not _act weird about it, but she was also a little alarmed at the way his eyes glittered. He looked like he'd looked in the cage of Charlie's cruiser. And he had some promises of his own to make. He put one hand on the bench behind her and leaned close, so close that the breath caught in her throat.

"I take it back. I never even put it out there, and now I'm taking it back." He spoke slowly. "I don't— I don't want to be your boyfriend. I don't want to take you out, make you presents, sing you shitty songs, kiss you—"

Her face went red.

"—make out with you on the beach—"

Redder.

"—or anything else like that."

"You don't have to say this."

"Let's say it. We're not making out in the Rabbit, either, even though these seats recline a hundred and sixty degrees. I checked."

She covered her face with her hands. Sadly, that left her ears exposed.

"There will be no picnics, chocolate, moon-rainbow-glitter-shit. What else do girls like? Ponies? No ponies."

"I don't like ponies."

"Good. I'm not writing you any poems. Couldn't anyway. And I'm not picking you any of those little pink flowers that grow by the road, what are those things?"

"Sweet peas."

"They suck. And I swear to God, I do not want to put my hands—"

"Stop!"

She risked a peek at him. Somewhere between the tears in his eyes when he'd started and now, a little smile had crept onto his face. A crooked one, but a smile nonetheless.

"Come on, Bells. That's what you don't want, isn't it? Cheesy shit. And more. It's the more that really gets you. You know I see it. Can't we please talk about this?"

"No."

"Too late." He dropped to a squat in front of her, resting his forearms across his knees. There was a black smudge on his chin and a corresponding streak on his sleeve. He took her hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the soft skin between her thumb and first finger. "You want to go to the prom?"

"No."

"Excellent."

"Now you're laughing at me." She tried to pull her hand away. "This is not cool, Jake."

"Oh, believe me, I'm not laughing." His face was almost as pink as hers. He looked at the floor. "I can't believe I said all that. So embarrassing."

"For _you_?"

He wouldn't let go of her hand. Instead he threaded their fingers together. Brown. Pink. His skin was warm. He closed his eyes, pulling her closer so that he could lay his cheek on their hands. "I take it all back," he whispered.

Rain sluiced down the windows.

He told her he was sorry. He knew how hard it was for her to think about this stuff. Sitting at her feet, his eyes shut, he reached for her other hand and held it to his mouth. His lips poured the words into her skin. _Sorry. Can't. Hurt. _ All the words that turned inside her, stones in her own heart. _Need. Please. Mine. _ That was the word that made her curl her fingers around his. _Yours. _

He said he hadn't gone home last night. He didn't know if he'd go back tonight. Embry had come out of the woods yesterday with blood running down his arm, and he wouldn't tell him what happened. Billy had turned cold_. _Sam had been coming and going, coming and going, slipping into the house at night when any sane person would be sleeping, and on Thursday, after the Hoquiam trip, he'd confronted him in his living room at one in the morning. Get out, he'd said, and Sam just stood there. Billy switched on the light. He sat watching them, silent, and it felt like the room was filling up with something awful. Sam _looked_ at him, and suddenly he wanted to kill him over that. It scared him. He'd spent last night on Embry's floor.

"He told me about his mom." Nineteen, pregnant by a man who beat her. Her own parents were no help, one in prison at Clallam Bay, the other in the prison of meth. She left Neah Bay for the sake of her baby, but she'd been wrong; she wasn't pregnant, at least not till she got _here._ "Shit. I want to kill _him_, too." Billy had pressured her, or lied to her, or something. She had told Embry that she felt like she had to give in to get housing here. She thought it wouldn't matter; she was already knocked up, no money, no car, no job, and two broken ribs from the man Embry had spent his life believing was his father. Seventeen years, believing he was the unwanted son of a nameless, brutal man.

"Billy broke it to her last Saturday morning. I was getting my license in Forks. I was so happy." Now he felt like an idiot. Like a child. Embry said his mother returned in tears from that conversation and that he'd slit Billy's throat if it happened again. "He would do it, too. I really think he would."

Still holding his hands, she got off the bench and knelt beside him on the dirty floor.

Billy had tried to explain more about Tiffany, but the words he used didn't make any sense. Compulsion. Helplessness. Joy. Terror. He said he had no idea Embry was his, and Embry said Billy hadn't _wanted_ to know. Embry also said that Sarah never liked him.

"No," said Bella. "She loved everyone. Everyone."

"Not him." And the thing that killed him was that he couldn't remember this, and Embry could. A look. Now and then. That was all she'd done. But it changed his view of his mother, and it hurt that Embry, a year older, had a memory he didn't. Even an awful one.

"I miss her so much."

Bella wiped her fingers over his cheeks.

"I can't remember. Can't even remember her face sometimes."

"You were eight. It's okay."

"No, it's not. I've lived half my life without her. I can't remember."

She climbed onto his lap.

He'd rather die than have his mother know what he'd said last night. Arguing with Billy. "He said Sam understood about Tiffany. And I said, Did you f—" He didn't want to repeat it. It was enough that it was something about Sam's mother. He'd gone to Embry's house. Tiffany fed him dinner, but she wouldn't look at him. He slept on the floor beside Embry's bed, furious at himself for the tears that wouldn't stop rolling down his cheeks, and sometime around four this morning, while he pretended to be asleep, Embry had gotten up and stood over him, looking at him for a long time. Then he'd climbed out the window.

"What the fuck is wrong with him? What's wrong with me?"

She tucked her head into the space between his neck and his shoulder. Smoothed her hands over his back. "Shh..."

He said he was scared. Something dark was moving around him. It had changed his father. It had given him a brother and taken him away again. It was dogging his footsteps.

"I hate that sock."

_You think you're the only one with a broken heart?_

_You can't help your friend because your tummy hurts?_

She wrapped her arms around him tighter.

"I hate that sock. And I hate that Ned—"

"Edward."

"—Ted What's-His-Fuck who messed you up so bad. I hate that sock if it makes you avoid me. Don't, Bella, don't."

She said she wouldn't.

There was no one else he could talk to about this. And even apart from this mess, Quil and Embry had always been each other's best friends. "You wouldn't know it. They don't say it. But that's how it is. You, you're mine."

With one arm, he tucked her legs onto his lap and squeezed her into a ball. It kind of hurt.

"Mine."

Okay, then. She blew her nose on his shirt.

"We are _never_ going to the prom."

After all her queasiness and quaking, after all her sweaty, gut-curdling, woozy, fretful hesitation, talking about _it_ didn't seem so bad—partly because they had taken it immediately off the table again, and partly because it seemed kind of stupid now. Her head felt strangely blank. Had anybody ever needed her before?

Not like this.

God, she was an idiot sometimes. She burst into tears.

Jacob rocked her back and forth. "Thank you," he said. "For listening. For letting me say all that. Friends, okay?"

"Okay."

"I think this is the best conversation we ever had. I think— Oh, shit, I think I just broke up with you."

She cried harder.

"I'm such a jerk. I made you cry. Maybe you should dump me."

The door opened with a thud, and they heard the sound of the rain. Cold air swept over the floor.

"Uh..." said Quil. "Am I interrupting something?"

"We broke up!" wailed Bella.

After one shocked stare, Quil slid down the wall in laughter. "Oh, thank God. I'm so tired of being your chaperone."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

I know, I know. They broke up. Shoot me. ;-)

1. Is the way to a girl's heart through her pants? What do you think about the pants/no pants and the human/supernatural elements of Angela's, Leah's, and Bella's failed relationships? Given that they all have different personalities, how do those things relate to their attitudes about possibly dating again?

2. Why does Paul tell Sam that he's fucked up? Do you agree?

3. What motivates Jake to break up with Bella?

4. Funny parts? Sad parts? Confusing parts? Favorite parts?

I hope you liked it. Please tell me what you think.

_To tell you the truth..._ I'm worried that it was unwise of me to post Chapter 23 and Chapter 24 both in one day! Won't you please take a moment to comment before hitting the "next" button? Please don't skip commenting here! Your feedback is helpful to me. Thank you!


	24. Chapter 24 New and Improved

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**"New and Improved"**

Jake had some Cokes and Cheetos in a paper bag. Nasty combination, thought Bella, but she didn't complain. He told Quil that from now on, Bella was just one of the guys. "The fourth Musketeer," she suggested. Quil looked for candy bars in the bag and then frowned at her.

She cracked open a can of Coke. "I guess I can take off my coat now and you won't care about this stupid tight sweater I'm wearing."

"Don't care," said Jake.

"Can I care?" said Quil.

She threw a Cheeto at him.

Flopping onto the minivan bench beside her, Quil offered his tutelage on being one of the guys. "You have much to learn, young Padewan." Jake returned to the Rabbit's engine and tried not to roll his eyes too much at Quil's instruction. Sweating. Scratching. Stuff like that. She drew the line at crotch adjustment. "Also," said Quil, "never talk about your feelings. Guys have no feelings. Like love." He jerked his chin at Jake. "I fucking hate you, man."

"The feeling is mutual."

"For example," continued Quil, "I would never talk about the horror that makes me cry on the floor whenever I think about my mom and your dad."

"The feeling is mutual."

"Leah says she's already got you enrolled in her school of profanity and smack talk, so I'll leave that up to her. But you have to learn belching from the master."

"Please no," said Jacob.

"One of the guys," insisted Bella. An hour and four cans of Coke later, Jacob was shaking his head sadly and Quil was giving her scores like "five out of six stars" and "elephant." Her fingers were orange with cheese dust and her nose stung from the inside out. She felt a little jittery.

"I need to pee."

"Piss," Quil corrected.

"Pee. Bad."

Jacob handed her the house key. "I don't think he's in there."

He wasn't. The house was strangely dark. Silent. The picture of her father, his friends, and his guitar was still on the mantle. They all looked so young in the picture, only five or six years older than she was now. And they looked happy. Charlie, Harry, Billy—they didn't look that way now. She walked softly through the cold house. Where had Billy gone? Did he feel as bad as Jake?

When she returned to the garage, Embry had taken her seat on the bench. Quil was grinning, sidled up next to him.

"I hate him, too," he explained.

Embry looked about as exhausted as he'd been when she saw him last weekend. He smiled at her, stifling a yawn, stretching his arms over his head. The shaggy haircut Rebecca had given him had grown a bit, or settled into place, so he looked less ragged. Stretching his long legs out before him, he threw an arm over the bench behind Quil. On his black T-shirt, a winged, nude man raised his arms in an ecstasy of ascension—or perhaps the agony of the opposite. Thanks to her recent classic rock cram sessions, she knew the image came from a Led Zeppelin cover, but she also knew it was Icarus.

"Emb," said his friend, "allow me to present the end of Jake's whiny bitch phase and the beginning of the new and improved Guy-Bella. Her talents include denial of inconvenient emotions and burping the alphabet A through H. We're still working on that."

Embry raised an eyebrow.

"Go on, Bella." Quil tossed another can of Coke at her.

She knew she couldn't catch it, so she sidestepped the thing and it burst on the wall in a spray of fizz.

"Did you shake that up?" said Jake. "You're going to clean that."

"Fine. Mom."

"I can't drink any more anyway," said Bella, "or I won't be able to drive home." She glanced around for a place to sit that wasn't on the floor. Jacob picked her up and set her on top of the Rabbit.

"You get the throne," he said, but he made her take off her shoes.

Bella had draped her coat and new hat over the bench where Embry now sat, and he seemed almost as amused as Sam at seeing it. He pulled a fluffy little bundle from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Hey," he said. "Wrecking Hood. Made you something."

It was, to her surprise, another hat. She ran her fingers through the silky, silvery gray fur. "Wow, thank you. It's so soft."

"Belly fur. That's the softest."

"Rabbit?" she guessed.

"Wolf."

"Isn't it illegal to shoot wolves? Or sell their fur?" asked Quil. "Where did you get that?"

"Uh, Canada."

"I love it," said Bella. "You really made this?"

He said that he had. And it had been quite enjoyable, really. "You never know what fun is until you're skinning a hide and piercing it with needles." Jacob shot him a weird look at that, but Embry just shrugged. "I like sewing."

Quil took that opportunity to instruct Bella in the ways of questioning the masculinity of others. Somewhere in the back of her head floated a vague, inarticulate idea that this wasn't cool to girls, or to anybody who liked sewing, but it was hard to solidify the thought when Quil was scoring so many points on a guy who just dropped his face into his hands and refused to fight back.

"Which brings me to an interesting question," said Quil. "Emb's not so good with the comebacks. Look how pink he gets. Almost as bad as you."

"Shut up, Quil."

"Yeah, like I haven't heard _that _one before. So is he more of a man because he won't fight dirty? Maybe he can't. Poor guy. Or am I more of a man because eventually, I stop kicking an animal who's down?"

She looked between them.

"The answer is me," Quil whispered behind his hand. "Always me."

Jacob looked at Embry, and Embry smacked Quil in the back of the head.

"Occasionally," he said, "I can fight dirty. And this is not how guys act, Bella. This is how Quil acts when there's girls around."

Feeling a little wild, she cracked open a fifth can of Coke, guzzling half of it. "_I'm a guy,_" she belched at him. "Ooh! Did you hear that, Quil?" She chugged the other half. "_A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, Kaaaay._"

Jacob took the can out of her hand. "I'm cutting you off."

The talk turned to cars. _I knew it,_ thought Bella. She had long suspected this was the main thing guys talked about, after whatever was always on_ Quil's _mind. Jake asked Embry to take over the tool-handing responsibilities as he bent over the engine, sounding like a surgeon. "Clamp. Hose. WD-40." Quil persuaded Embry to trade shirts with him, saying that the Zeppelin shirt could hardly be comfortable, it was so tight. Quil's shirt said, "Insane Clown Posse" and looked much roomier. How considerate, thought Bella. She smiled at him. But then he peeled off his shirt with much stretching and groaning in her direction, and Embry dead-panned her with a look that said, please don't fall for his shit. He shrugged into Quil's shirt with considerably more expediency and modesty.

Quil said he was thinking about getting a van. He'd be able to test for his license next Saturday, and if he had a van he could get an after school job in Forks. Maybe at the grocery store or the pharmacy, something like that. His mother had said he could use the remainder of his father's savings to buy a car, but he'd have to be careful. This would be the last gift his father could give him.

"Dowling's got a couple of half-wrecked minivans I could afford. One's a '92 Nissan. The other's a Ford, an '89 Arrowstar. You have to help me decide. And I was hoping you could help me fix it up."

"Well, sure," said Jake. "You should probably get the Nissan. Too much maintenance on the late 80s Fords."

"Stands for 'Fix Or Repair Daily,'" said Embry.

"Or 'Found On Road Dead,'" said Jacob. "But what do you want a van, for? How about a hatchback?" He patted the Rabbit. "Something older. A fine vintage vehicle."

"Vintage vehicle," scoffed Quil. "The only thing older than that piece of shit is Bella's piece of shit." And besides, he said, it had to be a van. He looked at them significantly, and Jake and Embry laughed in his face.

"What?" said Bella.

They looked at _her_ significantly, and she turned to Quil with a frown. "Gross."

"Destiny," he replied. It was only a matter of time. His birthday was next Saturday, Valentine's Day, so it wasn't for no reason that he had a Ph.D. in love.

"No girl is going to follow you into a van, dumbass," said Embry. "And you got a Ph.D. in your right hand."

"Fuck you. I'm left handed." Quil rustled in the bottom of the bag of Cheetos. "And where's your girlfriend, genius? Ooh, I got a four point and a stack of porn."

"It's the Swimsuit Issues." He looked at Bella beseechingly. "It's _not _porn."

"It's practically porn," said Quil. "And speaking of fine literature, guess what this sick fuck's been hiding under his mattress."

Jacob blanched. "You found that?"

"Makes you cry, doesn't it? Your secret wet dream. Go get it."

Was it guy-ish to look at Jacob with an expression of horror? She couldn't help it.

"No," said Jacob. "Come on. I can't believe you—"

"Go get it. Or I'll tell her."

"I gotta see this," said Embry. He folded his arms behind his head and smirked at Bella, who floundered to come up with an appropriately guy-ish reaction.

"Let's, uh, see this piece of backside," she declared.

"You're flunking Leah's class, aren't you?" said Quil. "F minus."

Jacob threw a rag at Quil's head and called him all kinds of names, but he did get up and head over to the house.

"You're gonna love this," said Quil. "So, so much weirder than anything I've got under _my _mattress."

When Jacob came back, he was carrying a large, black, three-ring binder bulging with papers and photographs. "Algebra" had been written on the spine.

"Pulling all-nighters every night, aren't you?" said Quil.

Jacob tossed the binder onto Embry's lap with a couple of choice words for Quil. "I will never in a million years have her. And nobody was supposed to know about this, dickweed." Dropping the hood of the Rabbit with a bang, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Hmm..." said his brother. He lifted the book so that its cover was angled toward Bella, and he carefully cracked open the first page. Quil leaned over his shoulder.

"Holy shit, right?" said Quil.

"Oh, my fucking God," said Embry.

Page after page. He turned them slowly.

"Check out this one in the back," said Quil, flipping through the book with less care and stopping on something that made his friend blink.

"Where did you even find this shit?"

"Doesn't matter," Jacob mumbled.

"You think about this all the time, don't you? You nasty—"

"Not _all _the time," said Jacob.

The three of them looked at Bella.

"I think," said Embry slowly, closing the book, "that it's time we initiated Bella into our little club."

"Excellent idea," said Quil.

Jacob said nothing, and Bella drew her knees up onto the car and scooted backward.

"I think," said Embry, "that we should let her choose." He stood.

"No choices," said Quil. "We pick."

"A gentleman would let her pick."

"We're not gentlemen." Quil stood, too. "She knows that. I'm a total dickhead, really, and you're a slick, slinky bastard."

"Low blow, Quil." Embry kept his gaze locked onto Bella's. "But I'm going to let it slide." He stretched his arms over his head, a tiny smile curling one corner of his lips. "You want to pick, Bella?"

"No!" Her pulse had kicked up. She couldn't scoot any farther backward without falling off the car, onto the empty cans below, and she thought maybe— "You got me drunk!" she cried. "So you could take advantage of me! Jacob!"

"You're not drunk, Bells; you're hopped up on caffeine."

"Pop the hood, Jake." Quil hooked an arm around her middle and slid her toward him.

"I don't think she's ready," said Jacob.

"I guess we'll find out."

Bella squeaked as he lifted her from the car with his hands around her waist and passed her to Embry, who carried her to the front bumper and set her on her feet. "Dang, she's adorable. She weighs like, nothing. Look at this." He lifted her up and set her down again. "So cute. Can I have this?"

"Whatever," said Jake. "One of the guys."

"Exactly." Embry lifted the hood and Jacob propped it open on its stand. Quil leaned over her shoulder.

"We pick?" he said.

"No, she picks. Jake?"

"She picks," he agreed.

"Okay, fine." Quil cleared his throat and swept his hand aloft with a flourish. "There comes a time in every guy's life when his manliness is put to the test. A time when—"

"Shut up, Quil."

"—his very worth as a human being is pitted against the—"

"Pay no attention to him."

"—forces of darkness—"

"Forces of shut the fuck up, please. Please."

Embry whispered in her ear. "It's time to play 'Name That Car Part.'"

_Oh._

"—that threaten to emasculate—"

"You don't even know what that means," said Jacob. "You don't know what that means, you're not going to lure girls into your stupid van—"

"What did you_ think _we were going to play?" whispered Embry.

Her face was bright red.

"—and you have no idea what girls like at all, really."

"I know what your sister likes."

Jacob and Embry both shouted him down—_"your freaking cousin"_ —and the three boys turned to look at Bella. Quil huffed on his nails. Polishing them on his shirt, he asked her to back him up on this.

"It's true," she groaned, remembering Rebecca's unwilling smile.

Vindicated, Quil leaned over the engine, explaining the rules and stakes. No hints. No second guesses. No looking it up, of course, in the heavy green Chilton's manual Jake kept on his bench, or in the tattered copy of _How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive._ Bella glanced at that book longingly. On the cover, an awfully friendly-looking cartoon VW Bug grinned at her, its front bumper curved upward and its windshield wipers lifted like eyebrows. No crying, continued Quil. If she won, she received full membership into their man club—

Jacob rolled his eyes.

—and if she lost she had to suffer eternal shame.

"That's all?"

"What's worse than that?"

She leaned over the engine beside him.

"You pick," said Jacob. He added that it had been more than a month now since she'd been helping him, and that if she couldn't identify anything, he'd probably have to turn in his man card, too.

_Great. No pressure. _

Before her lay a mess of metal. A great big boxy thing in the middle with rounded parts on either side. Hoses coming out of it. Could identifying a hose count as a part? She had no idea what the hoses were for. They were just black and thick, connected here and there by silver rings. There was a large rectangular object in one corner, near the left headlight, with bolts and some kind of cables clamped to it. Wires _everywhere._ A small, round, silver thing that looked like it was part of the Tin Man from _The Wizard of Oz._ "Movie prop," was probably not the right answer. In her peripheral vision, she could sense that cash was being exchanged behind her back.

_Concentrate._

On either side lay two plastic containers with black, screw-top lids and more wires—tubes?—snaking out of them. The plastic was dingy and almost opaque, but she could see enough to tell that one held a greenish liquid, and the other, some pink stuff. _Not Kool-aid. Not Kool-aid. _There was a blue cylindrical thing that looked like it belonged in a beehive, and another black round thing, about the size of a dinner plate, in the back. Loud, was the only appellation she could come up with for that. Back to the liquid things.

There were only three kinds of liquid in a car engine that she'd heard Jake mention. One of them had to be antifreeze; she'd seen him pour that stuff in there one time, using a funnel, from a clearly labeled bottle. Where had he put it? She chewed on her lip. The other kinds of car liquid had to be oil and window washer fluid. She looked at Jacob, but he only shook his head. "No hints," he reminded her.

She peered at the plastic containers. Oil. Antifreeze. Washer fluid. Oil she knew was brown. Or black, in the case of her truck. She'd seen the mess Jacob drained out of there one day. So the green stuff was either washer fluid or antifreeze... and the container was close to the windshield...

"Antifreeze!" she shouted. "There!"

Jacob smacked his palm against his forehead and handed five bucks each to Quil and Embry.

She frowned at them. "Fine. Your turn."

"Oh, no," they said. "We have no fucking idea what all that stuff is."

Quil put on The Steve Miller Band at the old CD player that sat on the workbench. It was a little more mellow than the stuff Leah made her listen to. "Some people call me the Space Cowboy," he sang, turning on his heel, slow and sweet. "Some call me the Gangster of Love." He motioned for Bella to sit next to him on the minivan seat and handed her Jake's enormous binder. "Some people call me Maurice." A guitar imitated a wolf-whistle. "Cause I speak of the Pompatus of Love."

"You're the Plumpatus," said Jacob. "Hippopotamus."

"Ph.D., baby. Your sister. I'm Cupid."

"Cupid," drawled Embry, sitting on the floor now, leaning against the workbench, "is alone." His eyes were half shut. "He's the eternal wing man."

"See?" said Quil. "How do you come up with that, and not even a 'fuck you' when people give you shit? You're the smartest moron I know."

Embry shrugged. "Open the book, Bella."

She looked at the black binder on her lap. "I don't think I want to—"

"Open the book."

Quil made the decision for her. She clapped her hand over her eyes and peeked though her fingers. She saw red. Silver. Brown. Gray. Green. Peeking more, she saw a road, trees, rain. And a shiny red hatchback with gleaming silver rims whizzing around a corner so fast its back end was a blur.

"Gosh darn it. This is not porn."

"You sound disappointed."

"And I'm flattered," said Jacob, "that you thought so highly of me."

She turned the pages. Magazine clippings. Print outs from the internet at the Forks public library. A glossy brochure from a dealership, and even the envelop it came in, postmarked "Tacoma." Red car, blue car, black car. All the same model, as far as she could tell. Swishing through snow. Speeding past a green field. The instrument panel glowed blue at night, and the knob on the gear shift was covered in black leather and a shining disk with silver numerals: R, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6.

"Six gears?"

"Six," sighed Jacob.

She bent over the book again. In one photo, the car was covered in mud; a guy in the background waved a checkered flag. There was a VW in a circle on the grille.

"Oh!" she said. "It's a Rabbit. A new one."

"It's not a Rabbit," scoffed Quil, and even Jacob looked horrified by her mistake.

"It's an R-32."

"Which is..."

"It's a rally car. Part of the R line. Like the Scirocco." To her blank stare, he added that the thing was used in off-road racing and was the only vehicle of that nature sold stateside, for only one production year, 2004. It had a 3.2 liter VR-6, not a V-6, engine that could fit in the space of a four cylinder, allowing the lightweight hatchback to pack an invisible punch. And it was all-wheel drive. "It's approximately three times as cool as this thing." He patted the Rabbit.

"And it's got like, two hundred pounds of torque," added Quil.

"Two thirty-six," said Jacob.

Bella hadn't known that part of the engine could be weighed on a scale.

"It's the love of his disturbed, pathetic little life," said Quil. "Sick puppy."

"Puts out more than your van would."

_Ew._

Being one of the guys felt good. So nice to sit here with them without worrying about what she looked like, or where she sat, too close or too far. So nice not to worry about what Jacob was thinking, or how she could make him stop thinking it—without, of course, acknowledging that he was thinking it in the first place. It even felt easier to be around Quil, knowing that he wasn't wearing himself out trying to read the signals between them and take evasive action. She kind of appreciated him for that. Was it weird to scoot closer and bump his shoulder with her own? Nah. He was cool. He passed her the Cheetos.

As the afternoon wore on, the rain stopped. The light through the window warmed from gray to silver, the ever-present ocean mist blowing up the road with its scent of salt. She could see the whiteness floating over the pines in the distance.

Quil asked if Jacob had told her about what happened in school on Thursday. "Thursday _after lunch_," he specified.

Jacob's eyes met hers. He slipped a hex key into his pocket and straightened up from the engine. "No," he said to Quil. "Let's not—"

"It was awesome." He ruffled up his hair and shifted on the bench, angling himself toward her. They had been sitting in class, he said, the whole school at once, for a special lesson on tribal traditions. "'Today's topic is responsibility,' says the teacher. She looks around. She says, 'Where's our future chief?'"

_Oh, dear. _ Bella could see where this was headed. And yes, said Quil, it turned out that the entire school had witnessed Jacob's escape from the girls' bathroom window. "Next day, Leah says Mr. Responsibility here took her hostage. She gets off. And Jake owes an essay."

His face was red.

"We were all cheering for him. He was too far down the road to hear it. But we all opened the windows and were yelling after him, 'Whoo!' Even the teacher."

"Even the _teacher_?" said Bella.

"Tell her," said Quil. "Tell her your freaking essay topic."

"No."

"Well, then, tell me."

"No. It's private. Ass wipe."

"Fine." Quil got up and flung open the heavy, barn-like double doors. Sunlight, at last. "Ride me up to Dowling's?"

Putting on her coat, Bella stepped out into the cool air. Deep puddles lay in the ruts of Billy's driveway and in muddy depressions in the yard, but around the ramp to the front door, daffodils bobbed in the breeze. The blossoms hung low, wet with rain, and the mist was burning off, moving higher in the pines. Jacob rolled the old Harley over the gravel and lifted it into the truck bed so he and Quil could ride it back home. Behind him, shrugging into his anorak, Quil carried the helmets.

"Embry can have my bike," offered Bella. "If he wants to come."

But Embry was asleep.

The three of them stood in the garage doorway. How long had he lain there like that? From his slouched position against the workbench, he'd slid lower, till he lay curled on Jacob's old braided rug, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head tucked in on one arm. In sleep, his face looked different. His hair fell over his forehead; his eyes looked bruised. Was he shivering? His chest rose and fell softly, but his breathing was uneven.

It was then that they noticed the figure across the clearing. Jared. He had come out of the trees, slipping on a pair of tennis shoes and splashing over the field, dodging puddles. He moved with an eerie grace—he moved with _Embry's _eerie grace—his shoulders loose, his stride too long, loping over the grass and shaking rainwater from his hair.

Quil and Jacob exchanged a look. Wordlessly, they swung the garage doors shut.

* * *

><p>In the salvage yard beside Dowling's Auto Repair, Bella kept her hands in her pockets. The cold wind riffled the fur on her hat. It was an ugly, sad place. Stacks of half-worn tires along the chain link fence formed a black barrier between her and the road, but she could still hear the traffic passing on the 101, logging trucks groaning through the low gears on their journey to the shipyards in Port Angeles. Dowling, a heavy-set man with thinning gray hair and a cigarette pinched between his yellow fingers, looked them over long enough for her to feel uncomfortable before unlatching the gate. She followed him and the boys through a labyrinth of broken, unwanted things, pickups with no doors, a station wagon with all its windows shattered, a couple of drift boats in dry dock with their outboard motors scrapped on the ground beside them. When they reached the Arrowstar, a dull red color, like rust or old blood, Dowling turned the key in the ignition and it coughed to life. He spread out his hands as if to say, "Ta da," but he wasn't smiling.<p>

Jake had brought a few tools, just what he could fit in his coat pockets. He bent over the engine with Quil, and she could hear him murmuring, teaching him what to listen for. His face was dark, solemn. Asking Dowling to cut the engine, he slid beneath the van and stayed there for several minutes.

He was kind of amazing, thought Bella. The way he understood these things. The way he was so patient, guiding her, and now Quil, through a mystery they'd have no idea how to approach on their own. One of his hands snaked out near the front tire, tugging on Quil's pant leg. As Quil crawled under there, too, she looked back at her old truck and the Harley leaning against it, and she knew Jake could fix this. She figured he could fix anything. Couldn't he?

When the boys emerged, they asked to see the Nissan. It was a silver Quest, side-swiped so bad the passenger door wouldn't open. Neither would the driver's. It was locked, said Dowling, and he had lost the key. Quil looked to Jacob, who pressed his lips together and looked at Dowling. When the man didn't move, Jake pulled some kind of long, flat blade from his pocket and jimmied the lock.

Later, standing in front of her house as they said goodbye, she knew that was the moment when Dowling turned hard. Or harder. She had seen her friends crawling under a couple of vans and emerging like prophets. She had seen the future leader of his nation walk his cousin through a gauntlet. Dowling had seen two greasy, threateningly large Indian kids who were barely old enough to drive, but who could break into cars—and God knows what else. He wouldn't sell.

As Jake discovered, the Arrowstar had a cracked oil pan. Depending on how long it had been like that, all kinds of other stuff could be fried or nearly fried. The Nissan needed a new timing belt and some body work, and Bella suspected that if he really wanted to, Dowling could locate the key. Jacob spoke with him quietly while Quil stood at his elbow, but the man's face remained blank, implacable. Quil flushed. Jacob nudged him away, and they left. They left, but Jacob never once dropped his eyes.

"Pisses me off," he said, standing on Bella's porch. Charlie was out, at the station probably, and Quil waited in the driveway on the back of the Harley. He put his helmet on and stared straight ahead.

"Dowling's a jerk," said Bella. She was almost as mad. She'd never seen Jacob treated like that, and it made her want to smash something. He was beautiful, brilliant, kind, and good. La Push parted like a sea for him, and not because he asked it to.

Jacob thumped his muddy boots against one of the posts on the porch. His eyebrows were pinched together.

"Come on, Jake. Don't let him get to you. He doesn't know you."

He snorted.

"Why do you think we come to you for maintenance?"

"'Cause I'm free?"

"Because you're you."

He pressed his lips together again. She was starting to recognize this as a thing he did when he was angry, or when he didn't trust himself to say the right thing. Folding his arms across his chest, he looked over her shoulder, squinting at the horizon. The sun was going down.

"My teacher," he said quietly. "She wants me to write about not taking responsibility. That day I blew off."

"Easy. Just say what she wants."

"No. I have to write about _not taking it._"

_Oh._ That was harder.

She looked at Quil, waiting in the driveway, and she thought about the strange scene that had ensued when Jared showed up. Jacob blocking the door. A silent exchange between the boys. Jacob seemed to grow taller, standing to his full height, his body solid—swelled, almost—with determination, and Quil, his boyish roundness suddenly gone, stood at his side like one of the pillars off the coast, immovable over centuries. Jared had stopped short on the stones and looked _afraid._ She didn't know what would have happened if the door hadn't opened then. Embry stepped out, his eyes red. He bent his forehead to Jacob's shoulder and whispered three words: "Let me go."

_Need. Please. Mine._

She wormed her arms under his and squeezed herself against him.

_Yours._

"I don't know what to do," he said, folding himself around her. "I don't know how to write about that. I don't know how to _do_ that. I don't know what to do about Emb, or Billy, or this van, or you."

She wanted off of that list. Nosing aside his jacket, she pressed her face closer to his chest. He smelled like oil and woodsmoke.

"We're good, right?" she said. "No more weirdness?"

"Mm."

"So let's do something tomorrow. Something fun. Let's go away, Jake."

"Sounds irresponsible."

She nodded. "It's your homework."

That made him laugh, which made _her_ feel so much better, too.

"I should have broken up with you ages ago." He hugged her once more and clomped down the steps. Swinging a leg over the Harley, he frowned at her before putting on his helmet. "Don't call me."

"Fine. Never liked you anyway."

Quil, she was pretty sure, was rolling his eyes behind his visor.

As they sped off, she unlocked the door and headed for the kitchen. Maybe she'd make meatloaf for Charlie. He liked that. And maybe she could think of something really awful to do with Jacob tomorrow, something thoroughly distracting and idiotic. After all, that's what friends were for.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong> _Thanks for reading. I hope you liked it.

Questions for you, if you are interested. As you know, _I _am always very interested in your answers. They're very helpful to me. So...

1. Could you guess where Embry's gift came from?

2. How does Bella seem to feel about getting dumped by Jacob?

3. Do you think Guy-Bella is new and improved in any way?

4. Can you surmise what happens after Embry says, "Let me go"? Do I need to spell it out, or is that not necessary? Like, why does it seem like Jared might have been coming by?

5. What should Jake and Bella do on Sunday afternoon? (Don't say, "Make out in the Rabbit." I don't care if those seats recline a hundred and sixty degrees; they broke up, already. )

6. Funny parts? Sad parts? Favorite parts? Confusing parts?

FYI: I swear to God, they will get together some day. In fact, before the end of February. The story began on January 24, 2006, and it is now February 7.

Thank you, as always, for your support. THANK YOU. Previews of Chapter 25 are coming your way, with my thank you notes to your reviews! Hugs and stuff.


	25. Chapter 25 Not a Date

**Author's Note:**

Dear Readers,

_Bella's Guitar _won a third place prize for Charlie as a Best Supporting Character in the 2014 Fandom Choice Awards! Yay! I want to thank everyone who voted, and especially thank the person who nominated this story. Who are you?! Oh, how I want to thank you. I didn't even know about the contest, much less that this story was in it, until someone told me. And I mis-remembered the deadline and forgot to ask you all to please vote. So, wow, I am so pleased that the story won the award despite my absent-mindedness! Thank you again, everybody! That is very special to me.

Also, dear readers, in this chapter Jacob describes a journey. It's real! But I changed the destination for Jake's journey in the summer of 2005. I gave him the 2004 destination. Better trip.

I hope you will enjoy this chapter.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Bella's Guitar<em>**

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

**"Not a Date"**

Sunlight. It set the white curtains at her window aglow and crept over the hardwood as the morning brightened. It was only eight o'clock, but for Bella, accustomed for years to waking before the dawn, hurrying through unfinished homework or scrambling downstairs to make breakfast for Renee, eight o'clock was sleeping in. She rolled to her side, pulling her quilts over her shoulders, and watched the pink sky pale to white, then blue.

Last night, the temperature had dropped and the wind died down. The air had been still and cold. Now the panes of window were etched with a brittle lacework of frost. The roads might be icy, which would affect her plans with Jacob. She snuggled further under her quilts, thinking.

Charlie had liked the meatloaf she'd made for dinner last night. He seemed kind of surprised, actually, which made her wonder when the last time she'd cooked him a decent meal had been. September? She'd have to rectify that, not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. She thought again that a caring, hardworking guy like her father deserved a little happiness. Not a magical-evenings-with-Quil's-mom kind of happiness, but a perfectly adequate your-daughter-cooked-you-a-meatloaf kind of happiness. Surely that would be sufficient for any father. She had boiled potatoes and swept the floor and laid the table with a beautiful cloth, embroidered with blue flowers, that she'd found in the upstairs linen closet. She guessed it came from her grandmother. Charlie seemed pleased to see it, and as they ate she told him about what had happened at Dowling's.

"You should arrest him," she said. "Or at least make him sell Quil the van."

"It's not illegal to be a jerk. I'd have to arrest half this town."

"He's a—" Her face flushed as she realized what bothered her most about this. "He's a racist jerk."

"Probably." Charlie dipped a bite of meatloaf in his tomato sauce. "But there's no way I can get involved with that sale."

"Why not?"

"Because of Quil's father."

Outside, the pines at the edge of the yard no longer tossed their branches in the wind. It was growing colder, and a purple dusk was settling over them. She was glad to be indoors—and she hoped Dowling wasn't. She sawed her meatloaf into squares, spinning them to even off the sides, and arranged them in three orderly, indignant little rows. _Racist jerk._

"His father was my friend," Charlie continued. "He wouldn't want his boy to come crying to anybody, and it's worse with me. If you had a problem, would you want Joy to fix it for you?"

Her mashed potatoes seemed very interesting, all of a sudden.

"Thought so." His eyes were crinkled at the corners, but his smile was a little sad. "You had to know him."

Big Quil, he said, had been big in a lot of ways. He'd been a tree-trunk kind of man, wide and solid and tall. But he'd also been big in his presence, in his laughter, in the way he made a room come alive. He was big on Christmas, stuffing the most ridiculously large tree he could manage into his house, and big on practical jokes. He would have loved that stunt they pulled on Jacob's birthday. He could balance like a cat, slipping around on the gunwales of his boat, over the ropes on the docks, with a casual, uncanny swiftness, which made his death all the more staggering, and he could whistle. Any tune. Right on pitch. He was loud and stubborn and a little wild, but also patient, loyal, forgiving, and a lot smarter than he let on. He had been gone four years now.

"He could filet a trout better than anybody I ever saw. Slid the spine out in one piece. And the salmon. He'd wade right out in the river, haul in a drift boat half full from the nets, and then stand there for hours, smoking it real slow, over cedar shanks. Harry still burns his shit to pieces; he can't wait for nothing. And that pisses off Sue, who looks at Joy, and then those two are off at their own fire, Sue sneaking Harry's fish over there because Joy knows how it ought to be done."

"Huh?"

"The point is that we miss him. We miss him a lot. I loved that guy, and the least I can do for his son is nothing."

Bella wasn't sure she understood that, but Charlie didn't want to talk about it anymore.

Now, watching the sunlight soften the frost on her window, she wished again that she could think of some way to help Quil. But all she could come up with was a way to help Jacob. And that seemed more pressing.

Jacob needed out. _You're the only one I can tell, _he'd said. Well, maybe she was the only one who could help. She would not let him down. In fact, she hadn't felt so energetic about something in a long time. Suddenly planning his escape, even if just for one day, seemed like an important project, and she threw herself into it with fierce purpose. She watched the sunrise, thinking about what to pack, what to say to their fathers, where to go. It would be fun and stupid. She felt a strange tingling near her eyes and realized that she, too, needed this. They would be stupid together.

But not, of course, stupid enough to race down the icy 101 on the bikes. Oh, heavens no. They would take her truck, and if that seemed lame, then so be it. After all, there was irresponsible, and then there was dead. Even a few weeks ago, she wouldn't have cared about that. But now... Things were different. Charlie, Angela, Mike, Quil, Seth, Leah. Even Mrs. Kranz, in a weird way. And Vera. She had them, and they had _her. _

Jacob had her, too. She would show him.

When the sun cleared the pine tops she smiled and rolled out of bed. Today was going to be great. Her bare feet padded over the yellow wood to the window, where she breathed on the glass. She watched her reflection disappear where it fogged up and then return. _Me. I'm coming back. _She blew again on the glass and traced a heart with her finger. The tingling near her eyes started up again. _Me. I'm going to be okay._

Impulsively, she spun around and shoved her desk away from the window, closer to the door. Then she crawled across her bed and planted her feet on the floor. She shoved hard, once, twice, and then the bed was sliding. She pushed until it hit the wall beside the window. _Every day, _she thought. _Every day I'm going to get up like this, right next to the sun. _She pushed her bedside table to the window, too, and smiled shakily at the picture of her grandmother, wiping a hand across her eyes. Then she turned to her closet to get dressed.

That's when it happened.

She barely noticed it, and it wouldn't be until much, much later that she would fully understand its import. All she felt was a little pull. A tug. An odd sensation that made her pause, just for a second, as she crossed the floor where her bed had been. It was like gravity, or vertigo, or a faint hint of nausea. Her head felt funny. But she shook it off, attributing her hesitation to indecision about what to wear, and stepped over a strangely heavy spot on the floor.

Downstairs, she called Jake and told him to do his homework.

"I'm doing it with you, dweeb. What's your irresponsible plan?"

"No, not the essay. All the rest of it. Do it this morning because I'm picking you up at one, and we're going to be out all day."

"Should I be scared?"

"Maybe," she said. Then she hung up on him.

_Wow, that felt wild and crazy!_

Charlie, sitting at the kitchen table reading the _Forks Forum_, raised an eyebrow at her. She told him she was going to take Jacob to the library. Then she dumped all of her school books out of her backpack onto the floor.

Rustling through the cupboards, she found the supplies she needed and stuffed them into her pack. A spoon. Salt. Scissors. She trotted upstairs again and grabbed a bar of soap and a few more things from the bathroom cupboards. Then she slipped across the hall to Charlie's room, where she pulled open his dresser drawers until she found some of his thick, wool socks.

"Get out of my room," he hollered.

_Fine. Mister Grumpy. _She took three pairs, just in case. Down in the kitchen again, she opened the refrigerator, and selected a large hunk of Swiss cheese. It was kind of old, and it smelled a little funny, but it would do.

"So," said Charlie, as she was sealing it in a little plastic bag, "you're going to the library."

"Yep."

"Going to the library with cheese."

"Yep."

Swirling her red coat around her shoulders, she fastened its black buttons and tied the strings of her red gnome hat, the new one Mike had given her, under her chin. She would wear it to work this morning to show him she appreciated it. And it would come in handy for her afternoon with Jacob, too. She hitched the backpack onto her shoulders, testing its weight.

Charlie took a sip of his coffee. "This library wouldn't happen to be in the woods, now, would it?"

"No. Of course not."

He stared at her hard enough that she felt she ought to explain a little.

"Jacob's stressed out. I'm taking him for a surprise later."

More staring.

"It's a surprise."

Setting down his mug, Charlie rapped the edges of his newspaper on the table and folded it up. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. She knew he was taking the day off, for once, with Matt Hathaway in charge at the station. He wore jeans and a blue flannel shirt; his face was bright and his eyes looked a little more alive. Part of it, she realized, was because of the change in herself. This was more than making him a meatloaf.

"You know," he said, "I always thought he'd be a good friend for you. Nice to see you return the favor."

She smiled at him. "Well, sure."

"Just don't get him drunk."

"Dad!"

"I'm kidding." He waved her toward the door. "Go. Have a good time."

* * *

><p>When she arrived at work, Mrs. Newton handed her a bucket and asked her to clean the customer restroom. Once again, it had not been cleaned since she'd done it herself last weekend. Apologetically, Mike escorted her to her duty, murmuring that he was very sorry about it, but she'd probably want to wear gloves. Yesterday morning, the Outfitters had been visited by a VW busload of aging hippies on their way to Vancouver Island.<p>

"Some of them looked like Jerry Garcia," he said. "Some of them looked like Jerry Garcia's grandparents."

_Delightful._

When she was done with her chore, she found Mike in the hiking section, cataloguing a new shipment of long underwear. She knelt beside him as he sorted the pants and shirts and matched SKU numbers against the tags his mother had made. As he worked, he asked her if Charlie had said anything about bears lately.

"No. Why?"

"I thought with those missing hikers, at least with the one who died, you know, maybe it was a bear." He added that the hippies had said they were camping last night along the Queets—

"Last night? It was thirty degrees."

"They didn't look like they could afford a motel room." And anyway, he said, they smelled like more than one kind of smoke, so they must have had _at least _a campfire burning. Some of them seemed a little freaked out, asking about bear canisters and whether or not there were grizzlies around here.

"Only black bears," she said. Even _she_ knew that.

"Yeah. That's what I told them." He hung up a few pairs of the pants, separating them by men's and women's, whites and blues. "They said they'd seen a huge gray bear running across the river."

"Bears aren't gray."

"Maybe it's a sick bear. Mange. Rabies. I don't know. Maybe some giant bear got that hiker."

Somehow, the thought of a humongous, mangy, rabid bear in the woods seemed better than what she feared was out there. In fact, when it came right down to it, Bella realized she was a big fan of rabid bears. Maybe, Mike said, the hippies had been too high to see straight; maybe they imagined it. But Bella hoped not. Right now, a VW busload of relief was rolling north on the 101. _Thank you, hippies._

She leaned over the box of and removed the packing slip. In addition to the long underwear, at least six kinds of socks were enclosed. Wool, cotton, alpaca. Nylon and other synthetic blends. Bamboo. And wind-powered bamboo.

"What's this?" she said, holding up a pair of green-striped knee socks.

"This is a brilliant idea," said Mike, "and a huge mistake." He flipped over the socks to read the label on the back. "'Bamboo: Nature's Most Renewable Resource.' Great, right? Windmills wove these socks. But look at this." He pointed to the price tag. "Bamboo: Newton's Most Expensive Footwear."

"Eighteen dollar socks?"

"And my mom thinks _I _don't know what will sell."

That remark earned a rather snappish reproof from the direction of the register.

She and Mike spent the rest of the morning on tedious organizational tasks. Refolding shirts. Tagging hats. And Mrs. Newton wanted them to shift their entire inventory of fishing supplies from the left to the right side of a long aisle that ran down the length of the side wall. Bella could hear grocery shoppers talking about cereal just a few feet away, and she thought again how lucky she was that Mrs. Newton hadn't spotted her yesterday morning. "I got cookies in my truck for you," she hissed to Mike.

Now and then customers would stop by, and Mike would help them. Bella, naturally reserved, could admit that she wasn't so good with the customer service aspect of customer service. Watching Mike, she felt a little jealous of the ease with which he greeted people, got them smiling, and pointed them in the right direction. It was the kind of job Jacob would be good at. Instead, she gathered spools of fishing line in her arms and sorted them carefully. She knew, from living with Charlie, that it was very, very important not to get fifty pound test line mixed up with those of lesser weight. That was how the ones that got away got away in the first place. As for the lures, she left those entirely up to Mike. They were flimsy, flashy, feathery, and strung with hooks, barbed and double-barbed. She hadn't injured herself since Thursday, and she intended to keep it that way.

As they worked, Mike talked about Jessica. He'd called her up Friday night to ask her out for waffles at the diner some time this weekend. After their recent breakups (twice, he said, since November), he thought maybe this could be a casual way to start seeing each other again. He didn't want to pressure her. But he didn't want her to forget about him, either. And he wanted her to know that being friends was cool, too, as long as they could actually _be friends._

"She won't even talk to me some days. I don't know what to do."

There would be no waffles. She had shot him down pretty firmly. And worse, she had hinted that she'd be spending time with someone else this weekend. He figured she meant the guys from Peninsula College she and Lauren had met.

"College men," he scoffed. "Bunch of losers who don't have their shit together enough to go to a real college."

"It's a decent school." She made a face, thinking about her grades from fall semester. "A school where I might end up," she mumbled.

"You'll get into Evergreen. You, me, Ange. But Jessica's going to Stanford, Berkeley, some place like that. What's she doing with a guy from PA?"

Bella kept her eyes on the floor. If she was doing what Angela figured Lauren was doing, then... She felt her cheeks go pink.

"Aw, shit, no!" said Mike. "You think?"

Bella could only shake her head.

"Why?" He looked he wanted to tear his hair out. The fishing lures in his hands, dangling from their tags, made tiny jiggling noises as he stuffed them onto their new display rods. In his haste, he'd tangled them, but she didn't want to point that out. His eyebrows were pinched together, his blue eyes glittering. Cursing, he tossed the rest of the lures onto a shelf. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to talk to her anymore, or how she—" He turned to Bella with a desperate, almost accusatory look. "You're a girl! What the fuck is she thinking?"

She said she didn't know. Some of the lures had fallen off the shelf. They lay mixed up on the floor, red and blue and green. A few of them looked like dragonflies. She was starting to feel kind of twitchy.

Mike shoved his hands through his hair.

"Maybe she's not," said Bella. She began to pick through the lures, very carefully, with the tip of her shoe. "Maybe she's just... hanging out with them."

He groaned. "She's been acting weird ever since— Oh, my God, it's you."

"What?" She looked up, a tiny plastic worm caught on the shoelace of her red Chuck.

"Tell her you don't like me."

"But I do," she said, shaking her foot.

"Tell her I don't like you."

"I never even talk to her. She hates me."

"Yeah, well, now I know why." He groaned again, pacing in the aisle. "It started last year. You moved here—"

"Not my fault."

"—and then there was the dance—"

"You asked me!"

He flung his hands in the air. "Fucking Student Body President over here! I was being welcoming!" Stripping another bracket of its lures, he threw them on the floor. They clinked together, hooks tangled. "And then there was that dickhead Cullen, and Jess was fine, and then he left, and now she's all—"

"Michael!" snapped the voice from the register.

"Agh!" He made a strangled noise and tossed a few spools of fishing line on the floor, too.

Bella knelt to pick them up. When she'd replaced them on the shelf, she began toeing through the lures, red ones here, green ones there, but they didn't look right. Perhaps she should organize them by size. Or shape. She pulled a display rod from its bracket on the wall and poked at them as if they were embers in a fire.

"I should break up with you," said Mike.

"But we're not dating."

"I should dump your ass in the cafeteria."

"That's mean! I would never dump _you_ that way." She did _not _feel like getting dumped by not-boyfriends twice in the same weekend. Had she ever had a relationship with a guy who _didn't _dump her? Gosh, darn it. This was not cool. "Nobody's dumping anybody around here!"

"Ah, you're right. Shit." Mike kicked the lures into a tangle again.

It was too much to bear. Red, blue, green, yellow, pink, plastic, wooden, metal, feathered, plain, big, small, minnow, dragonfly, chum, fin, flashy, spotted, and striped, all horribly jumbled. Something senseless snapped in her head and she plunged both hands into the mess. Moments later, she was in the employee break room with Mike and a can of antiseptic spray. She wept silently as he worked a barbed hook all the way through the skin between her thumb and first finger.

"Stupid lures," he said. "Everyone who's anyone around here knows you fish with salmon roe."

* * *

><p>Driving along the La Push Road, Bella rubbed gingerly at the white gauze taped around her left hand. It was getting even harder to tally her injuries.<p>

Nine stitches on her forehead from her first bike crash, January 25. Check.

Hideous road rash on the back of her thigh from the second bike crash, January 29. Check.

Sliced left index finger from using the box cutter at Newton's, February 4. Check.

Swollen lump on her forehead from trying to escape antiseptic spray in Newton's break room on that same day. Check.

Scabbed knees and elbows from tumbling down the steps at the Hoquiam library, February 5. Check.

And today's achievement, two pierce wounds on her hand and one scratch on her ankle from the pink worm lure that had stuck to her shoe, February 8. Check, check, and check.

_What the heck is wrong with me?_

Maybe it was best not to answer that question.

If she had been anyone else's daughter, she might have hoped to outgrow her clumsiness, but in Renee's most recent email, there had been an account of how she'd sprained her hand reading to her kindergarten class. It hurt Bella's head to try to imagine how that could have happened.

On her way out of town, she'd filled her truck with gas, withdrawn some money from her account at the ATM, and stopped by the library. The internet access there was so much better than at home, so she could quickly check the directions to a few places in Port Angeles. She also checked her email.

Renee's messages had been piling up. She wrote to Bella almost every day, just little things, about going to the grocery store, buying a sweater, teaching her students. Her class was working on the letter O, and Renee had created a dance to go with a phonics character called Olive Octopus. It was a good mnemonic device for the kids, and they loved waving their arms, twirling around the classroom. "Ahhhhh..." said the kids, making the short "o" vowel sound. "Ahhhhhc-to-pus." Two kids, a table, and Renee's knees had somehow resulted in the sprain. Renee had attached a photo of Phil's hand holding her sprained hand: "Love," was the caption. She talked about how Phil's spring training would be starting up soon, and how they had decided to get a second cat. There was also, to her surprise, a message from Phil.

_Hi, Bella, how are you?_ it read. _Haven't heard from you in a while. Hope you are doing okay. Please write to your mother or call. She misses you very much. —Phil._

Tears had sprung to her eyes.

She didn't know at all what to do about that, or why it had happened. She'd just logged out and skittered outside to her truck. That _hurt_; it made her stomach hurt, and she didn't know why. When she tugged on the door handle, she saw that her fingers were shaking. _Drive,_ she told herself. _Drive and breathe._

The stinging in her left hand was a good distraction. She wished she had known, before reaching into that pile of fish hooks, that once you've gotten a couple stuck in your hand, there's no choice but to work the barbs all the way through. Mike kept her from blubbering too bad by talking about, of all things, bait. Every fall, he said, his dad would slit the belly of a salmon or two and freeze the eggs. The roe. The mess looked like a thousand red pearls. And when the steelhead ran in the spring, he'd thaw some of it for bait.

"That's what we should sell," said Mike. "Little boxes. With tiny compartments, or maybe a mesh bag for a wet paper towel."

"Mm, hmm," she'd sniffed.

"You have to keep the eggs moist."

She gritted her teeth as he snipped the ends of the hooks with tiny wire cutters and soaked her hand with antiseptic spray.

"What, no cussing?" he'd joked.

She thumped her forehead on the table in reply. When he'd gotten her bandaged up, he squeezed her good hand, looking at their fingers together.

"Why don't you just tell her how you feel?" she whispered.

"She knows." He kept his eyes down. "And I'm not going to beg."

She didn't know what to say after that.

Now, driving along the La Push Road, she squinted through the rain as her windshield wipers pushed the water back and forth, back and forth. They could never seem to push it away completely. The trees and fields flickered past, a hundred different kinds of green and a hundred different kinds of wet and cold. She wondered if love would suck this bad in a place with better weather.

And with that thought, she turned into Billy's driveway.

* * *

><p>The daffodils beside Billy's ramp had been killed by last night's frost, their petals limp and stringy, and despite the fire crackling in the wood stove, the air inside the Blacks' house was only slightly less chilly than the air outside. Bella stood on the mat by the door, blowing on her hands, as Jacob thumped around in his room.<p>

"He'll be right out," said Billy. Sitting at the dining room table with a topographic map of the peninsula spread out before him, he lowered his reading glasses to the end of his nose and looked her up and down. "Where are you going?"

"It's a surprise," she said.

He pressed his lips together the way Jacob did and looked at the map again. "Sol Duc?"

She shook her head.

"Bogachiel?"

No again.

"How about you just tell me?"

She glanced down the hall. Jacob had slipped into the bathroom, so she crossed the room and set her finger on the map at Port Angeles. Billy sat back in his chair.

"All right, then. Sit, sweetie."

She wasn't too sure about that. The last time she'd had any one-on-one time with Billy, it hadn't been so nice for her. She backed toward the door.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," sighed Billy. He cocked his head to the side and looked at her long and hard enough that she began to feel ridiculous. Slowly, she withdrew one of the chairs at the far end of the table and perched on the edge of it. He smiled as if he found that awfully amusing, and in a conspiratorial whisper, he hissed, "You're looking a little better."

She allowed herself to smile back at him. Just a bit.

"Charlie thinks so, too."

"I'm trying," she whispered.

"You're stronger than you think, eh? Going to be okay?"

She nodded. She forgot, sometimes, that Billy was the only one who knew the truth. Maybe someday, when she was ready, she could talk to him about it. It was strange to think that Jacob, just down the hall, scoffed at his father's superstitions while she and Billy held a terrible secret between the two of them.

Last winter, on the beach, she had flattered the information out of Jacob. That time seemed so far away now. He'd been younger and doubting, and she'd been on the cusp of her great love and the loss that had changed her forever. She felt a million years old. This winter, as she was pulling herself out of the hole where she'd nearly drowned, she felt herself coming full circle with Jacob. Younger. Doubting. Whole. She'd never tell him. Never pull him into what she and Billy shared. His father's eyes were blacker and blacker, sunk deep in the lines of his face.

"Hurry up in there," Billy called. To Bella, he said, "He's primping."

"Heard that," said Jacob. "I'm just brushing my teeth."

"Primping," said Billy. "For his date."

Jacob came down the hall, shrugging into his green jacket. "It's not a date. Never were any dates. Never going to be any dates. In fact—" He opened the refrigerator. Rustled in an old pizza box there. "This is the one with the garlic, right? This one?" He stuffed an enormous bite into his mouth and talked through his food. "We broh uh. I noh prih-ing. Noh looh-ing gooh. Noh e'en showah'd." He swallowed. "Smell me."

"Get out of here, boy." Billy shoo-ed them away. "I bet she got tired of you. I bet you never took her anywhere, lazy bum."

Bella's face was red, but Jacob just rolled his eyes as he closed the door behind them. "He's especially obnoxious today, crusty fart."

"Heard that," came a muffled voice through the wood. "I'd break up with you, too, smart-ass—"

Bella opened the door again. "Technically, we're not broken up. We were never dating. It's not—"

"We broke up," said Jacob, and he closed the door with a bang.

Buckling up beside her in the truck, he pushed his hair behind his ears and settled her backpack across his lap. "Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise," she groaned, for the millionth time. Waving her hand in front of her nose, she added, "Was the garlic really necessary?"

"Maybe not," he grinned. "But delicious."

She backed out of the driveway, switching on her windshield wipers again as she headed east out of town. When the heater warmed up, she took off her hat and smoothed her hand over her hair, brushing the staticky strands away from her face. She asked him why Billy was in such a good mood.

He sighed. "I think it's because I came home."

Friday night, he'd slept on Embry's floor. Last night, he'd intended to sleep on Quil's floor, but his grandfather kicked him out. Said he ought to go home and be a man about it. "He's got a stick. I went home." But that didn't mean he wasn't still angry.

There didn't seem to be anything more to say about what had happened with Tiffany. At least, nothing they hadn't already said, and nothing that wouldn't make both of them more upset. And nothing, of course, that would change anything. It hurt to imagine not knowing Embry, yet he couldn't reconcile that with the way it had come about. He kept thinking of his mother.

"I hope to God she never knew. But Emb thinks she did."

Bella had no experience with this kind of problem. She could only recommend the course of action that seemed to help most with her own problems: "Try not to think about it."

The road to Port Angeles was the only road north out of Forks. It didn't take too long for Jacob to guess where they were going. "Darn it," said Bella. Nevertheless, as they drove, she was thankful that the supplies she'd brought still harbored some mystery. Jacob unzipped the backpack and shook his head at the contents.

"A spatula?"

She refused to tell him what that was for.

"String? Socks?" He rustled in the bottom. "Shampoo?"

She smiled to herself. This was the best surprise she had ever planned. And it was the cheese, really, that was her stroke of genius. He looked at that for five miles or so, quizzing her for clues. Every now and then, on a long, flat, straight stretch of road with little or no other traffic, she risked a sideways glance at him. His cheeks were pink. He was smiling, too, digging through her stuff. The dark, wet forest flashed past the windows, and she thought that it made her happy to see him like this. Sunny again. She wondered how long she could make it last. All the way to town? All afternoon? He was blinking, holding a scarf and a package of spaghetti. Longer?

"Man, I give up. What are we— Wait, sunscreen? Are you kidding me?"

"It's a _surprise_," she insisted.

"Shaving cream?" He pulled out a tall can with red and white stripes swirled around it like a barber pole. _Extra Strength_, it was labeled. _For a Silky Smooth Shave on Even the Most Stubborn Beards. _"This is yours?"

"No!" The truck swerved a little as she tried to stuff it into the pack again. "It's Charlie's."

"It's yours."

"Is not. Geez."

"Your face is all red. Looking guilty to me."

She was pretty sure he was teasing her, so she frowned at the road in what she hoped was a dignified manner.

"Bella the Bear. Who knew?"

"Shut up. I am a perfectly smooth person."

"Thanks to this nasty stuff."

He wouldn't let up until she gave him some clues about her plans. With a little prodding, he recognized that all of her supplies began with the same letter. With a little more prodding, he tried guessing some things in Port Angeles that also began with S.

"Shipyards? Oh, boy, I always wanted to hang out in a shipyard."

They passed Lake Crescent, a long, blue expanse curving beside the road for several miles. The mountains on the far side were obscured by rain and mist; low clouds hung over the dark water. Nearer to them, though, the water looked a little brighter, the color of slate, and a few tourists' cars were parked by the roadside, heavily jacketed people braving the soupy weather for a better view. It was impressive, she remembered, and a brilliant peacock blue on a clear day.

"Shopping?" guessed Jacob. He looked torn, like he wouldn't enjoy that at all but didn't want to criticize her plans.

"Nope."

He puffed the air out of his cheeks. "Sailing? Singing? Oh, please, no karaoke."

She kept him guessing until they rolled down the hilly streets to the Port Angeles waterfront, where she parked a couple blocks above the pier, and they walked down to a low, steel-sided, blue building. Feiro Marine Life Center, said the sign. There was a statue of an octopus out front.

"Sea creatures!" she said.

It was a far cry from the world-class zoo in Victoria, but on the website it had looked fun. Inside were open tanks of sea water on low tables and representatives of animals found in the Straits. Starfish. Scallops. Even a sea cucumber. These had been her inspiration for the S supplies in her pack. A older gentleman in a green smock, volunteering as a docent, walked them through the exhibit. "Go on," he said. "You can touch them."

The water was cold. She watched Jacob run his fingers over the rough sides of an orange starfish. He knew, she was surprised to learn, almost as much as the docent about the animals here. He said he'd seen them plenty of times on the rocks offshore at Second Beach, but it was still neat to be able to hold them, turn them over—and show them to her. He talked her into touching an anemone. Like a wild, watery flower, it fanned its arms in the current pumped through the tank. Its sides were purple, flecked with sand, and the center of its body blossomed blue and green. One of its tiny tentacles latched onto her finger.

She waited there, listening, as he talked with the docent about some little things stuck to a rock in one of the other tanks. He looked happy. Relaxed. He stood towering over the little old man, cupping a tiny brown fish in his huge hands, smiling at it like a little kid. In the tank before her, she watched the anemone explore her finger, tugging with its soft, animal suction. Jacob disappeared down a hallway, the docent talking about whale migration.

Bella watched the anemone. Beautiful and strange. Cold and silent. When she had left Newton's, Mike walked her out to her truck. It had been drizzling again, as usual, but he said he didn't mind. As she gave him the cookies, she asked him, almost against her better judgement, if he'd meant what he said about Edward. The name he had called him. It took him a moment to remember, and she stood there cringing, braced.

"Oh, that." Mike shrugged. "Yeah. Sorry. I know you liked him, but he never really talked to anybody else. Too good for us or something. Pasty prick."

She'd never thought much about the way he might have looked to other people. It didn't feel very good. Wasn't he handsome, perfect, stunning? Yes. Golden eyes. Artfully messy bronze hair. She thought about his skin, like white marble, and the sweet scent of his neck where she had liked to nestle her head. Freesia. Wisteria. Something else she could never place. His hands had been those of a pianist, fine and delicate, and when he played for her she'd close her eyes. She'd let the sound fill her with the idea of him. The idea of being in love.

Was that all it had been? On his side? Why would he have left if it had been real for him?

It had been real for her. And so had the pain.

She stood there in the parking lot with Mike, one hand on her truck's door handle, blinking in the drizzle. Her head felt strangely light and hollow, like a balloon. _Too good for us._ Six months ago, even one month ago, she would have said yes, he was too good for them. Radiant god. White angel. The angel she saw now was the pale stone that perched in the cemetery near her grandparents' grave. Wasn't he— Wasn't Edward more than that?

Mike had nudged her toe with his boot, and she shook her head to clear it. "Got any other ideas about Jessica?" he said.

"No." Even her voice felt hollow. "I guess I'm not— I'm not very good at love."

Now she looked into the water at the anemone. It was eyeless. It sensed her through its feathered appendages, wrapped around her finger. In fact—

"Jacob?"

In fact, it was pulling on her hand.

"Uh, sir?"

How could such a squishy little thing be so strong? It was pulling her finger toward its green mouth, and her skin felt puckered, scoured raw. She tugged against it, but it only wrapped more tentacles around her. Would it be wrong to pull this thing off of its rock? Probably. But it was starting to _really hurt._

"Jake?"

He returned before the tears could start spilling down her face, and the docent used a pen to distract the animal.

"When I said you could touch it," he smiled, handing her a Band-aid, "I didn't mean leave your finger there and let it chew on you."

Jacob seemed to find her distress adorable. He wrapped the Band-aid around her finger and put an arm over her shoulders as they walked outside. It had stopped raining, but the wind was blowing cold. The waters of the Strait were a deep, hard blue, and the mist prevented her from seeing the other shore. Taking her hand, Jacob said, "Awwww. You hurt your other hand, too!" as if that were the cutest thing ever. She snatched it back, telling him about what happened at work. "Yeah, those fishhooks," he said. "Gotta watch out. They move fast."

Was there no one who respected her difficulties? She frowned at him. And she did not give back her hand. It was the one James had bitten, and she'd rather keep her strange, shiny scar to herself, anyway.

They walked beside the water. There was a paved path through a park that looked like the kind of place that would be good for a picnic, during the three or four weeks out of the summer when it wasn't forty degrees and/or raining around here. The green lawn was populated by a few geese. Above the park, on one of the blocks leading down to the marina, he pointed out the little cafe where Sue had taken him and his sisters last weekend. She could see a pink awning over the door and remembered Rebecca's description of the pink plates and tiny forks. It was nice, he said, but he didn't recommend the fare. Too sweet. Too small. "Kind of like you," he teased. He also pointed out a broad stretch of sandy beach near the pier. It was called Hollywood Beach, he said, but its significance was far older than its ridiculous name.

"I was here," he said, with great finality and import.

She looked at the sand.

"Last summer," he added grandly. "I was right there."

The strip of beach looked no more remarkable than any other she had seen around here. The sand was a dark brown, and the rocks at the high side, at the edge of the path, were gray and rough looking, splotched with dark reddish algae. The beach was sheltered from the rough waters of the Strait by a long, thin peninsula that curved eastward, creating a small bay, called Ediz Hook. He pointed that out, too, then returned to gazing at the beach.

She stuffed her hands in her pockets. It had stopped sprinkling, thank goodness, but it was still quite cold.

He stood there for what seemed like a long time, a tiny smile hiding in the corners of his mouth, his eyes half shut. She waited, which seemed best with him. After a while, he began to tell her the most astounding tale of an adventure she had never imagined anyone might undertake, at least, not _now. _It was the kind of thing she'd only heard of people doing a hundred years ago.

All along the coast, from Oregon to Alaska, tribes had been building, rebuilding, and restoring ocean going canoes. Like, the kind made from one massive cedar tree. It took years, seasoning and carving them, and even finding the right tree in the first place was a serious undertaking. It had to be wide and tall, of course, and near the beach, so the carvers wouldn't have to carry it very far. The best were old-growth, which was rarer and rarer, and the very best had no branches along one wind-blown side, which meant fewer knots in the hull. The Quileute had such a vessel.

"We have a wolf on the prow. It's our _thing._"

She nodded. She remembered his telling her something about his tribe's legends a while ago.

Every summer, he said, the tribes would launch a canoe—or two, or three—and paddle to visit their neighbors. Hundreds of miles away.

"What?"

"Yeah. We went to Canada."

It was a convergence. A festival. A ritual. A spiritual journey. It was three weeks at sea in a twenty-foot vessel, traveling like their ancestors had travelled, except that now they had to watch out for freighters and ferries in the shipping lanes. They paddled with support boats and friends following on shore, in vans, just in case they needed help, and they camped on the beach and with neighboring tribes. The fleet built on itself, picking up steam, picking up friends, until dozens of canoes met at the mouth of some river in Canada with a name she couldn't pronounce, even though he said it to her three times, in a rainy forest that was the home of a people who had been there, like the Quileute, for a thousand years, maybe longer. It was a resurgence of an art that had nearly faded away, until the Quinault came up with this idea. A different tribe hosted each year, with thousands of people coming to see the landings and celebrate.

"Changed my life," he said simply.

Bella was seriously impressed.

The beach here in Port Angeles, he said, had been one of many stop-over points. And at each place they landed, there had been a protocol to follow. Paddles up to signal goodwill and ask permission to land. Words of welcome. And then hoisting a thousand pound canoe onto your shoulders and powering up the beach. It was hard work.

"And the paddling. Pulling. You follow the shore, but you have to get out past the breakers for smooth water. You rise up so high you think you're going to fly, or flip, and then you slop down the other side of a wave so hard you land on your knees."

He talked to her about beaches no road could reach. The caves beneath Cape Flattery. The orcas they'd seen, just off shore here. All of it had been wonderful. Grueling, but wonderful. Most of the paddlers were young, people he went to school with, but a few parents came, one as skipper, and they'd also had an elder or two ride along for a couple days. His favorite part had been just watching everyone.

"I sat in the back. Quil and Emb in front of me, partners. They're timed well. Think the same. Dig hard. And in front of them, Sam and Leah. She's a beast, you know that?"

"I can believe it."

"Kicked all our asses, every day." He said she never got tired, though she complained for miles and miles. She and Sam were unequally matched, but it ceased to matter once they were underway. She was ferociously determined, though thin, and incapable of conceding that anyone might be stronger than her, particularly the person on her left. Sam himself was stoic, enduring, calmer. Jacob thought he and Leah were silently daring each other to keep up. They'd laugh. And everyone got sunburned, but Leah would never wear a hat. Said she liked the light. Sam would be smiling, squinting into the sun, and they'd look at each other like two wild things, two bright things, like stars. "Everybody could see it. The way they felt."

She wiggled under his arm and stood closer, leaning on his side, watching the waves with him. The wind still stung her face, but she tried to imagine the water a warmer blue, the gray sky clearer. She tried to imagine Leah last summer. Kind of like herself then. Jacob had dropped his eyes; she could see the light in his face fading. "Tell me more," she nudged him.

"We ate clams."

"Ew."

"They're good. Dig 'em up; roast 'em in the sand."

That sounded horrible, but she poked at him to keep him talking. He was her project, after all, and the whole point of this was to make him feel _better._

He said his favorite person to watch had been Embry. Day after day, through sun and wind and mist and salt spray and bad surf, he saw Embry smile. "He looked drunk." He just smiled all day long.

They got to Che-what-y-what (she still couldn't understand the name) and spent five days with the crowd there, about two thousand people—

"Two thousand people?"

"Yeah. About two thousand, and seventy canoes. I can't even remember all the tribes. Don't tell my dad. I think that's part of my job. But I can't remember them all. God, we ate so much, and drummed and danced and told stories, and hooked up with people—"

"No!"

"Yeah, a little. Not _me._" He grinned down at her. "Oh, no, I'm a good boy. But I think that's part of why Emb was smiling so much. Some Haida girl."

"You mean he—"

"No, no. He's not a sleaze. And there were like forty thousand chaperones."

She rolled her eyes at him. "For two thousand people?"

"Yes," he said dryly.

The whole thing had been awesome. And the best part, he said, was hard to describe. He tried to tell her about Old Quil, their honored figurehead, riding in the bow for a day between Neah Bay and here. He sat backward. Said from that position, he could watch the horizon all day, watch it falling away. But most of the time he had his eyes closed.

"Was he seasick?"

"No. Inside himself."

That was the thing. The best part.

"You feel yourself changing." He was quieter now, watching a flock of brown pelicans passing over the bay. Their necks were tucked tight for flight, their wingbeats slow. "You paddle six, maybe eight hours a day, and you hurt so bad. You think you're going to die."

"No."

"Sort of." At first, it had been terrifying. Heading into the open ocean with people he sat next to in school, people he knew for a fact couldn't spell, or add fractions, or even show up on time. He'd thought, more than once, that maybe this whole thing was a bad idea. "But you pull and pull, and sing and cry, and then—" He stopped, his face flushed. As if he didn't want her to look at him, he pulled her abruptly into his arms and held her head to his chest. "And then you fall in love."

The word combined with his nearness made her heart race, a vague panic suddenly swamping her. He just held tighter, misinterpreting her squirming, mumbling, "Don't laugh. And don't tell anybody else."

Beneath his arm, she could see a seagull hopping over the sidewalk; when it lifted itself up she felt sick, watching it wheel away on gray wings. But the wind felt cooling, and he didn't let her fall. _Not ME_, she reminded herself. _He's not talking about ME. _

"Sky and water, sky and water," he said. After many days, it did something to him. He came to feel that everyone in the canoe was his family. That he would do anything for them. And that he could imagine himself, more deeply than ever before, becoming what his father wanted. What everyone seemed to need him to be.

"Strong."

His heart beat beneath her cheek. He never seemed to zip up his jacket anymore, so she could feel, through his T-shirt, his warmth and the breath moving through his body. He smelled good, in a weird way. Not exactly fresh. And certainly not like flowers, not like— Like someone else. But good. She took a deep, shuddering breath as he curled around her in the wind.

He said he came to feel that his position in that canoe, in that family, was one of responsibility and work, but also of love. He loved them all. Was this how his father felt? Was this how he was supposed to feel? He didn't care. He could never go back to not feeling it.

Bella sagged against his chest, smiling now. Was there no end to this boy? He was the sweetest, dearest thing in the world. Something huge and wonderful beat inside him, shining out to all his people. He would be a good chief. Someday, she was sure, he could do that. In the meantime, she was so, so glad he had called it all off between them yesterday. That thing inside him—mere inches away, behind a flimsy cotton shirt—was frighteningly powerful.

"Does this sound weird?" he was saying. His chin bobbed on the top of her head. "This is weird, right? Oh, why am I telling you all this?"

This was her chance, she thought. To do what a friend would do. She squeezed her arms around him. "It's okay," she said. "You can tell me anything." She meant it, and she felt a small, strange thrill inside her chest. It was a foreign sensation.

"Same here." He left his chin on her head.

Probably it would have been logical for them to step apart at this point, but they didn't. That was okay, she figured. He was nice and warm. Reasonably okay smelling. She was conscious of the fact that she hadn't washed her hair that morning, but that didn't seem to matter. He was going to keep his nose out of it from now on.

After a while, he said, "Emb's not happy anymore."

"Hmm?"

"From the summer. It's gone." And the change, he figured, was not just something that happened a few weeks ago. It had been brewing, indirectly, since August. That's when Sam turned into a jerk.

"Sam disappeared for a couple weeks. People were freaking out. Not even his mom knew where he was. Now we figure he was in Neah Bay. He comes back, and he looks like a truck hit him. He's all huge and pissed off, hopped up on something, and he won't talk to anybody but Quil's grandpa for some reason, for days and days. Then Leah's cousin comes by and he starts following her around like a sick dog. He breaks up with Leah. And people start taking sides."

She didn't have to look up at him to see how much this bothered him.

"Not like a game," he continued. "Dead serious. It was like he _wanted_ to hurt her. Like he left her for the person he knew would hurt the most. Dickhead Jared takes his side. He's not that smart, sorry to say it, so we all thought, whatever. But then Paul, and now Emb. Why?"

She didn't know. And she didn't like the way it was affecting him. "Come on," she said, tugging on his hand.

They began the climb up the hill toward her truck. Jacob was quiet for a block or two. He ran a hand through his wind-tangled hair and took one of his ever-present rubber bands from his pocket, pulling his hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck. It would have been smart, thought Bella, for her to bring one of those, too. As it was, she just put her hat back on. When they reached her truck, she unlocked the door for him. From their position on the hill, they could see the marina clearly. She started the engine, and while it was warming up, she shifted on the seat to face him.

"It sounds awesome," she said. "Traveling like that. Being with everybody."

"It was."

"You'll do it again? This summer?"

"I don't know." He was looking out over the water, at the white masted sailboats moored there. "Seth wants to go. His mom thinks he's too young, but I think he could do it. We could go; we all could go, but—"

His face darkened, and she knew this was what bothered him the most.

"—I don't think we can. It would never be the same." He snorted. "Guess who was my partner."

She shrugged.

"Paul. Yeah. Fucking perfect together. I'm strong; he's stubborn. Same height, same weight. He follows me. Keeps up with me. He never lets me rest, and I never let him get distracted. His head's all over the place, let me tell you. Can't sit through class some days; he's slipping out to run. Worse lately, but he's always been like that."

She nodded.

"Quil's grandpa, he says to me, 'You hold onto him.' What's that mean? I don't know, but I did it. He was a monster."

She could hardly imagine Paul cooperating with anyone.

"Now he's a total dick to me. To Leah. To Quil, to Seth, to you."

She nodded again.

"We were friends. Yeah, we were. But the one I really hate is Sam. He broke us up, not just Leah. He broke up that whole canoe, and I never wanted to hit anybody before, but I swear to God, I think I'm going to tear him up some day."

He looked at his hands. Big. She knew, if he were a different kind of person, that he could do a lot of damage with those hands. He curled them to fists and opened them again, looking at his wide, brown palms.

Very quietly: "I never wanted to hit anybody before."

She placed her own small hand in one of his and folded his fingers around it. "Dinner," she said. "Something unhealthy. I got forty dollars. Let's blow it all."

* * *

><p>As Bella soon discovered, Port Angeles had one restaurant where forty dollars would have been blown on the salad course, and a lot of others where they'd have to put a little effort into it. "How about there?" Jacob said, as they passed an Italian restaurant. "Look, it has your name on it."<p>

"No, thanks," she replied. She wasn't sure if she wanted to avoid that place because it would make her cry, or because it would make her cry a lot. Would Elizabeth Barrett Browning have dined there, if Robert had run out on her? _How do you hurt me? Let me count the ways... _Certainly not.

They ended up in a pizza parlor fancy enough to have white tablecloths. It was next door to the cafe where Angela had taken her after their coat shopping expedition, and close to Peninsula College. Sliding into a booth across from him, she thought that this seemed like a pretty nice place. It was quiet with only a few other diners in the back, and the tables were decorated with tiny white vases holding red carnations and baby's breath, tiny candles in cut glass dishes, and tiny placards with pictures of desserts. Jacob picked that up immediately and perused the cheesecake selection while she rearranged the sugar packets in their plastic holder. She had heard once that all restaurants had to place the sugar, Sweet-n-Low, and Equal sugar alternatives in the same order, every time, to be kind to blind patrons. She checked the arrangement of the packets on another table and reshuffled the ones on hers. When that was done, she lined up the salt and pepper shakers.

"What are you doing?" asked Jacob.

"Nothing."

They ordered a medium pizza that was half cheese and half meat-bomb. At least, that's what Bella called it. Jacob called it a snack. He said that all four of the major food groups were represented. Cheese, Pepperoni, Bacon, and Sausage. There was nothing, he claimed, that couldn't be improved by adding cheese or bacon. Maybe both.

"How about pasta?" she said.

"Easy. With cheese."

"French toast?"

"Bacon." He added that she wasn't offering him much of a challenge.

"Soup."

"What kind? Potato and cheese? Bean and bacon?"

"Fine. Ice cream."

"I'm gonna go with bacon."

"Oh, you would not."

"Saw it at the state fair. Last year."

"Sounds disgusting."

"Ate it at the state fair. Fucking amazing."

One of the waitresses, an older lady passing in the aisle, looked at him darkly, and Bella kicked him under the table. "Shh! I thought you had good manners."

"Only in front of your dad."

He said something else, too, but she couldn't tell what it was because of the pizza he'd stuffed in his mouth. Something like, "I'm Mr. Perfect." Or maybe, "I can act perfect." Probably the latter. He'd lied to Charlie pretty smoothly about the first time she wiped out on the bike. And he'd told the whole town how proud he was of Billy last weekend. She wasn't sure if she should admire him for his ability to dissemble or not. Maybe it needed neither commendation nor condemnation. Maybe it needed something else.

What was happening to her sunny Jacob? Something dark was moving around him. Something was changing. She didn't like that at all. It made her want to fight, made her want to wheel around with a wild swipe of something solid, like when she'd held off those people with the crutch on the night she smashed the truck. Maybe her Jacob project would have to last longer than today.

When they finished the pizza, they still had twenty-four dollars left to spend, so they ordered an assortment of cheesecake. Key Lime, Caramel Turtle, and White Chocolate Raspberry. It made her stomach hurt to eat all of that, but it was far too good to leave on the plate, and wasn't it irresponsible to give oneself a stomachache? She pointed that out to Jacob, who raised his hand to request another slice of the Turtle cake.

"What are you doing after school tomorrow?" she asked him.

"Rabbit. You?"

"I have to visit Vera."

She told him a little more about her history project. The information she'd discovered in Hoquiam was so shockingly awful that it made her want to spend more time with Vera. She didn't know what she could possibly say to her about all that, or even if she should bring it up. Albertine had said that Vera didn't like to talk about it, so silent sympathy might be best. And she had promised to find another book to read to her. Preferably something without romance.

"How about _Hamlet?_" Jacob suggested. "Revenge. Insanity. I liked it."

She shook her head. "Ophelia. Pond."

"Oh." He thought for a second. "_Call of the Wild._ I read that in junior high. Dogs, wolves, snow. Cool stuff."

She said she'd consider it. It sounded far better than anything else she had come up with.

Jacob said he thought it was sweet that she was spending so much time with an old lady whom she didn't really know. A person who wasn't her relative. Someone with no real claim on her.

"I have to. It's for school."

"But you don't have to read to her. It's nice, Bella. I think it's really nice of you."

"You do?"

"Yeah." He set down his fork and reached for her hand across the table. "You're— You're good at listening. And you know when people feel sad. And you just— You know, it's nice sometimes just to have somebody next to you." He said some other things like that, and how he liked that about her, but she could hardly hear him. Something dizzy was blossoming inside her. She felt her cheeks getting pinker. It had been a long time since anybody said something like that to her. A long time since she felt very good about herself. She felt her eyes getting teary again, and she wished she could stop feeling so fragile, but he wasn't looking at her eyes anyway; he was holding her hand, looking at his napkin, really, but telling her all these nice things and—

And then it all started to come apart.

She realized that they were sitting in a nice restaurant with flowers and candles on the table. They had enjoyed a special meal and an awful lot of dessert together. As evening fell, someone in the restaurant had dimmed the lighting and piped Frank Sinatra tunes over the stereo, and now Jacob was stroking his thumb over the back of her hand. The pleasantly dizzy feeling in her head changed to a buzzing, blank horror. He felt the shift in her breathing, and when he looked up, she knew her face must have gone fish-belly white.

"Bells?"

"This is not a date," she spluttered.

"What?"

"This." She pulled her hand away and waved it over the table. "This stuff. You. Me. Date. Not." She couldn't seem to make a full sentence come out, but she was pretty sure he got the idea. His face darkened, hardened.

"Am I so horrible?"

"No, it's just—"

"You're hurting my feelings. You've already made that clear, very clear—"

"I'm sorry."

"—and I told you my priorities." He waved his hand over the table in angry imitation. "You, me, date, not, thanks a lot."

She didn't like the way his eyes glittered.

"You, me," he continued. "Friends. That's it. What do I have to—"

"Oh, Jake, I—"

"_You_ invited _me_ here. Your idea. And what's this?" He indicated the little white candle, glowing in its glass dish. "The flame of our passion?" Very deliberately, he lifted his water glass and poured it over the candle, never taking his eyes from her own, until her tears spilled over. At that point he sighed and sat back with his arms folded over his chest. "Don't cry. I can't take it."

She smudged her hands over her cheeks.

"You make me crazy, you know that?"

"I make myself crazy," she admitted, looking at the wet tablecloth. "Maybe I am. I just can't— I can't— You know I like you, don't you? So much."

He looked away.

"There's no one more important to me. You." She didn't know how to explain any more. Crumpling up her napkin, she wiped it over her eyes and nose.

"You know what's important to me?" he said quietly. "Getting rid of everything that hurts you." She watched as he took the red flower from its vase and smeared its petals over the white cloth. "If there was something to kill, I would kill it for you."

"Jacob."

"No. I would." He set his hand on the table, palm up. "Can I touch you?"

She put her hand in his. It made her fingers stop shaking.

"This is enough."

They paid their bill. The waitress was none too pleased about what they had done to the tablecloth. Bella left a large tip that was probably more about easing her conscience than pleasing their server, and they stepped out into the cold street.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"Walk with me."

Block after block. It didn't matter where they went. The air grew colder and the night came down. They walked until her feet hurt, and then they walked more. After a while, she realized they were doing it to make him tired. When he had had enough, they returned to the truck.

"I'll drive," he said.

The road home was long and cold. She didn't know what to say to make things better. They followed the road through the dark, between the tall, black pines, until they got to La Push. She got out with him when he parked in his driveway.

"Tuesday," she said. "After school. I'll come to see you."

"That would be nice." He pulled her into his arms and held her until she stopped sniffling. "It's okay," he said. "It's okay."

At home again, she hung her coat in the front closet with barely a word for Charlie. He watched her ascend the steps to her room and close the door. Once in there, she peeled off all her clothes, as if she could take off the mistakes she had made. She had ruined their day. She had wanted to make him happy, and she had ruined everything. Why, why? She thought she might cry on her bed, but instead she felt drawn to that spot on the floor where she had hesitated that morning, her head feeling strange, her feet feeling heavy. There she collapsed. She had been so close. She had almost made herself happy, too.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

_Dear readers, Have faith. Have faith in my Jake and Bells._

Little Questions.

1. Do you think Charlie should help Quil with the van problem?

2. What do you think Mike should do about Jessica?

3. I tried to develop Jacob's character here a little more. What impressions do you get of him from the way he talked about the canoe journey?

Big Questions.

1. What's up with the heavy spot on B's floor?

2. Your thoughts on J and B's "not date"?

_Thank you. I hope you will share your opinions on this chapter. Remember I treasure your words. Previews to reviewers. Hugs and Gratitude to all!_

_P.S. Just curious. If you like, could you tell me what state or country you live in, if you choose to review? I just think it's amazing that the Twi FF world spans the globe, literally. I have met people in France, Sweden, Indonesia, Canada, England, Australia, Dubai, Ohio, Minnesota, Illinois... hmmm... Am I leaving anyone out? Let me know!_

_P.P.S. Where's my peeps?! I haven't heard from many of you after this chapter... Are you still out there? "Please write to your [author] or call. She misses you very much."_


	26. Chapter 26 Forgiveness

Dear Readers,

Hi! I'm back. And I've finished this novel. I worked for months and months, and now I will post the final chapters every few days instead of every few months. There are nine chapters to go.

I want to thank everyone who has supported my story, especially Pingou, Beaches of La Push, and ilovefanfic. Also I want to thank everyone who reviewed the last few chapters: Blue Moon, KaioM, RedRosie03, April-Showers82, Leppy99, Sophie, ilovfanfic, mymyshadow, MagicalMercenary, Ruby Red-Venustas, pingou, Lorraine, Koddt24, the dr donna, Amaleea, m. m. press, Maxsmomma, vriend, cazzy1, Taytay123456, Beaches of La Push, Emilise284, jharv241, echo58, alixandria, Jane, Eludain, Crazy kitten, cloudshadow22, flashahh, tonyamic10, JSam1021, Anony, mrslisablack, Zayide, firecewolf, Chat1, CharmedBooklett, nothinwrong2013, MissPoisonedAddiction1, twilightlover212, PernFan, LCB, withlovej, Maggie, SunshineDaisies6, ThePeopleOfThisNation, a little girl blue, feebes86, IceQueen2012, Ashmerlin, Tiggerb722, TaleWeaver, Dnicholson127, WackyWisher, weekaa1313, YouHaveGOT2BeKiddingMe, JessicaBlack1, DarkSouthernBelle, dancingbarefoot, katteken, klarsen117, twilightlover212, Havran, Jessy Rhian, Gillian Cooke, and Jena2013!

Also, I want to shout out the roll call of Twilight fans from around the globe. Readers who chimed in are from France (2) Minnesota (3), Ohio (2), Michigan (1) in the Upper Peninsula(!), New Jersey (3), California (1), Sweden (1), Texas (3) including 2 from San Antonio (!), Connecticut (1), South Africa (1) (wow), Oregon (1), and Hawaii (1). That's pretty cool.

One more thing: a summary. Thanks to Crazy Kitten for this idea.

Previously, Jacob told Bella he was no longer interested in pursuing romance with her because of stress at home and in La Push. He needs her to be his best friend, not run away because of her worries about his feelings. Bella tried to help him feel better by planning a fun outing to Port Angeles, but in a pizza parlor she hurt his feelings by freaking out and declaring, "This is not a date." Also, Mike realized that Jessica avoids him because she is insecure about his friendship with Bella, and Quil tried to buy a used van, only to be thwarted by Mr. Dowling's apparent racism. Charlie keeps working on the search for the second missing hiker in Olympic National Park. (The first hiker was found dead, the victim of an "animal attack," but Charlie's not ready to close the case on that.) Sam and Paul are now employed by Forks PD and the ONP, respectively, to assist with the search since Charlie's deputies and other park rangers are suddenly uncomfortable going into the woods.

I think that should do it. Please enjoy this new chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Six<strong>

**"****Forgiveness"**

_A minor. D major. A minor. D major._

Billy's hallway had not been vacuumed in a while. She figured it wasn't unlike him to leave it alone, but it was unlike Jake. Jake was nearly as neat as she was, about things that mattered, that is. The Rabbit. His tools. His home.

_A minor. D major. A minor. D major._

She sat on the floor outside his room, leaning her back against the wall. Her guitar lay across her lap. Quietly, she played the chords that came to her, that seemed to suit her mood. And Jake's mood. His door was closed.

It was Wednesday, February 11. Valentine's Day was coming up soon, and more and more, she was coming to adopt Leah's attitude that love was shit. On Monday morning, after Sunday's trip to Port Angeles with Jacob, she awaked from the first nightmare she'd had in weeks, and it rattled her. She had come home miserable and ashamed of herself after the way she treated Jake in the restaurant, and she'd fallen asleep on her bedroom floor, feeling sick and dizzy.

In her dream, she had stumbled after Jacob through the wet streets of Port Angeles. His shoulders were stiff. He was walking too fast. Then everything changed; she was in the forest again, running after Edward, but Edward was gone. She woke with Jake's name stuck in her throat; only a strangled gasp would come out, but it was enough to wake Charlie. He'd leaped out of bed and opened her door at four in the morning. She was glad she'd had the presence of mind to tell him to not turn on the light, for she'd slept naked where she'd fallen.

"You're sure you're all right?" he said.

"Yes. Now that I'm awake. I'm okay."

Charlie had closed her door again quietly.

_D major. G major. D major. G major. _

Billy's hallway was cold, and the brown, matted carpet was faintly damp. Everything was faintly damp around here. She played her chords softly. Billy sat in the living room with the TV set on, but the volume very low. She couldn't tell if he was watching it, or if he wanted her to _think _that he was watching it. Maybe, she thought, he was _trying _to watch it. Maybe he was trying to give her a little privacy in a very small house.

Love was shit. The past few days had been terrible, collectively speaking. There was Jake, who hadn't spoken to her since Sunday night, though she had telephoned him several times. Each time, Billy was apologetic as he said that Jake didn't want to come to the phone.

And then there was Mike. In the cafeteria on Monday, Lauren had been talking about how it was time for Jessica to turn in her V-card. It was an awkward encumbrance that she didn't need to cart off to college in the fall, and Kevin Whats-his-Face from Peninsula College in Port Angeles was more than willing to accept her resignation, if she would just grow a pair of balls and step up to the plate. Tyler said he was surprised Kevin hadn't knocked that one out of the park a month ago, and Eric was mocking Lauren's mixed metaphors, but Mike sat silent, the color draining from his face. He reached for Jessica's hand across the table. That's when it went bad.

"What do you care?" she had shrieked, standing, her chair skittering backward. "You don't care!"

"I care! I fucking care!"

"You don't!"

Then it got worse. Angela shouldn't have interfered; even Bella could see that, but she did, putting her hand on Jessica's arm and saying that maybe she shouldn't do this if she wasn't totally sure about it; she didn't have to, and Jessica wheeled on her, saying that Ben hadn't wanted her. The problem wasn't with her father; it was with her. He'd told them all about it. She didn't know where to put her hands or her mouth or much else. She could pretend she was off-limits because she was God's favorite jewel, but the truth was that she was a—

"Stop!" Mike said. "Stop, stop stop!"

Lauren burst out laughing, and Angela walked out, her long neck held rigid. Bella and Mike followed. In the school library, Mike apologized. He actually knelt at Angela's feet as she sat on a bench. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he kept saying. It took Bella a minute to realize that he wasn't apologizing for the way Jessica had acted, but for himself. He was such an idiot, an asshole, he said. Jessica was a mean, nasty bitch lately, but he still loved her.

"What's wrong with me?" he said. "I want things to be like they were before. Or I want to stop wanting her."

He didn't know what to do.

Bella thought of what Mr. Horowitz would say to Jessica.

Angela had placed her hand on top of Mike's head. "It's okay," she said, though her voice sounded far away. "She's still your girl." Then she got up and drifted into the hallway. Bella had followed her around for the rest of the day, and all her questions about whether she was all right received answers that sounded like air.

_A minor. D major. A minor. D major. _

_G major. G minor. G major. G minor._

Her fingertips hurt. She'd been sitting on the floor in Jacob's hallway for almost two hours. Sarah Black's old songbook lay on the carpet. She had tried all kinds of songs when she first arrived. Bluegrass songs like "Nine Pound Hammer" and "Angel Band," thinking maybe this would make him smile. Then folk songs: "This Land is Your Land." Even blues songs: "Sweet Home, Chicago" and "She Caught the Katy." She remembered Jacob saying that his mom had liked the blues. She played all the ones she knew the chords for, and she tried singing a little, but it was hard because her throat was so tight. So after a while, she just sat there and strummed through chords without songs. Whatever came to mind.

_D major. C major._

It was funny how moving down a step sounded dismal, even though they were both major chords.

_D major. C major. _

Jacob's door remained shut.

Three days since she'd seen him.

On the first day after their trip, on Monday the ninth, she had called him at Quil's house and spoke to Quil. He put his hand over the receiver as he called to Jake, but in the background, she could still hear the murmur of Jake's voice. _Tell her I don't want to talk to her._

It hurt.

Quil got back on the line. "Sorry."

That day she felt frantic and sick. She called Angela, but Angela wouldn't come to the phone, either; her mother said she was lying down. Desperate to do _something_, Bella had made a huge batch of brownies and driven out to La Push in the rain. She felt hesitant, as if she were intruding. As if she were unwanted. She left half of the brownies at Billy's house, wrapped in a paper towel. She found a pencil in Billy's kitchen and wrote "I'm sorry" on the paper, but it tore and looked awful. Billy looked at her pityingly and her eyes welled up with tears, so she drove to Leah's house with the second half of the brownies.

Sue let her in at the door and made her take off her wet boots. Then Bella padded down the hall to Leah's room. Before she opened the door, Leah said, "Ooh, I smell brownies!"

_Nice to see you, too,_ thought Bella.

"No food in your room!" Sue hollered, so Leah stuffed all of them in her mouth in six bites. Eight brownies, six bites. Bella stared at her. With her mouth full, Leah hollered back at her mother, "Dey's no foo in hee-ah!" Then she said to Bella, swallowing, "Oh, sorry. Did you want one?"

_D major. C major. F major._

Visiting Leah was the first nice thing that had happened this week. Maybe the only nice thing. Bella had sat down on her unmade bed; there was a tangle of blue-flowered sheets and a dark blue comforter half on the floor. She picked up the comforter and wrapped it around her shoulders. Leah wheeled to her dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a hairbrush. As they talked, she pulled it slowly through her long, shining hair. It fell over her shoulders and almost to her waist in a spill of black silk.

"You look like shit," she began.

Bella shrugged.

"Is it Jacob? Did he hurt you?"

"I hurt him," she confessed.

Leah rolled to the door, silently closed it, and wheeled back to the bed. "Shh..." she said, lifting herself from her chair. But instead of sitting beside Bella, she wiggled behind her, pulling Bella between her knees with her back to her chest. She hugged her from behind, setting her head on Bella's shoulder and wrapping the comforter more closely around her. Bella squirmed at first, then she just leaned forward and put her hands on Leah's cast feet where they crossed in front of her own.

They talked about Sam.

She was just a freshman when she noticed him watching her. One day she had been sitting on the wooden steps after school, braiding and unbraiding her hair while she waited for Seth to finish painting the sides of the tribe's new canoe. Sam had helped carve it. Seth, only ten and far too young to paddle in it, was painting the sides red and black, and Sam was supposed to be working on the wolf's head on the prow. He'd file a little bit near the ears, then he'd look up at her on the steps. It was spring; he was eighteen and would graduate in a few weeks. Wind was blowing in from the sea. Looking left, she saw Akalat and the pines swaying on top. To her right was Sam. She put down her books and looked back at him, a question in her eyes. And he blushed.

"Never seen him do it, before or since. But that day he did, and I knew I had him."

That first year, Sam had returned from college every weekend that he could get enough gas money, and he always seemed kind of stunned, looking at her like he could hardly believe how lucky he was to have her waiting for him. Her parents had been hesitant to let her see him, given their age difference, but he had humbled himself completely, sitting in their living room every Saturday night, nice as you please. He treated her like a bird that would fly away if he made a noise, and he looked at her like she was made of magic.

"Like I was a flipping unicorn or something."

Not even her father treated her that good, and she'd had him eating out of her hand since she was four.

Sam told her everything about himself. Little things, like how he hated spaghetti, and big things, like how he would do anything for his mother, and how he would stare at photographs of the father he'd never met, trying to feel a connection. He would tell her these things in whispers. And when they were alone, he would smell her. Leah wished she could describe it in a way that didn't sound weird. He'd put his nose on her throat, or on her wrist, and close his eyes. And she had to admit that she'd smelled him, too. He just smelled _right._

Bella felt tears in her eyes again, thinking of how Jacob had a habit of putting his nose in her hair.

Physically, being with Sam was so good it was terrifying. She scared herself, every time. He seemed equally moved. He approached her like she would burn him, touched her like she was made of glass, held onto her like she was made of wind. She felt like the wind. Gone away from herself. And then he'd fall on her neck and beg her not to leave him, ever.

"Asshole," said Leah. It was killing her to think of him with Emily. Don't think about it, Bella said, but Leah said she couldn't help it. She thought of it almost every day, and it was killing her.

She told Bella how it felt. How her body had changed for him.

"You can't imagine," she said.

"I'll never do that."

"I'll never do it again."

Just the idea of letting anyone else touch her like that hurt almost as much as losing Sam.

Leah picked up her hairbrush again. She leaned against her white wooden headboard and took Bella with her, sliding her between her knees and pulling her back against her chest. Bella squirmed, but Leah wouldn't let go. Eventually she relaxed and set her head on Leah's shoulder. Closed her eyes. Leah pulled her brush through her long, black hair, and then through Bella's.

"I have only one thing that makes me beautiful," she said. "But you. You have so much. You're cute. And small. And I'm a big skinny tree. No one is ever going to love me again."

Bella put her hands on Leah's knees, which was the best she could manage for a hug. "That's not true."

Leah made no reply. Instead she brushed their hair until it was straight and shining. Then she tossed her own over Bella's shoulder and brushed their hair together. Black and brown.

"We're friends," she said, as if they had made a locket of their hair. Then she brushed it out again and wove Bella's into a French braid. She tied it with a white ribbon that she pulled from a drawer in her bedside table.

"You own a ribbon?" Bella had said.

"Just one. And shut up about it or I'll take it back."

So Bella sighed and leaned back against her friend. She pulled Leah's dark blue comforter over their feet, Leah's still in casts, and her own in brown wool socks. She couldn't tell how long they sat there like that, but she knew they must have fallen asleep because she was startled, a short time later, by the sound of the front door opening. She heard the thump of feet on the mat and boots set on the floor. Then footsteps came down the hall to Leah's room and the door was thrown open.

"What the heck is this?" said Quil.

Leah sat up, blinking.

"Are you being _nice_ to someone?"

"No," said Leah, and Bella found herself unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.

Grinning, Quil sat down at Leah's desk beside the bed. He picked up a pen and spun it on the cover of her trigonometry book. "You were playing Barbies with Bella."

"Barbie can rot in hell."

"I'm calling you Barbie from now on."

Swifter than Bella would have thought possible, Leah snapped one arm out to grab Quil's shirt and yanked his head against her mattress. With her other arm, she held her pillow over his face as he squirmed. Bella couldn't distinguish his words, but she was sure they were something profane. Leah pressed harder. After a minute or two, he quit kicking.

"Take it back," said Leah.

Only moans came from beneath the pillow. And after another minute, silence. His hands, Bella saw, were turning blue.

"Leah, you're killing him."

"Naw," said Leah. "I've had lots of practice on Seth." When she removed the pillow, Quil slid to the floor, his eyes rolled back in his head.

Bella put two fingers on his neck.

"This is science," said Leah. "My mom's a nurse, you know."

Later, driving home, Bella reflected that it was a blessing to be on Leah's good side. When Quil had revived, he crawled down the hall to the bathroom and threw up. Sue stormed into Leah's room and lectured her on the specifics of asphyxiation, exactly how much breath a body could hold and the number of minutes an average human being could last under such circumstances. Bella had watched Leah's eyes, could see the flash of mathematics there. Quil crawled down the hall again and into Seth's room. Seth hurriedly closed the door. Not long after that, a paper airplane was flown across the hall. When Bella unfolded it, she saw that it contained a note of apology, a promise of fealty, and a crumpled five dollar bill.

"Hmm," said Leah. "Maybe a little longer next time."

On the other side of the paper was a note for Bella: "Jake needs a few days."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"I'm pretty sure," whispered Leah, "that he's not going to hurt you. He's just not that kind of person. And I think this whole town knows how he feels about you."

This didn't exactly make Bella feel better.

"He's not going to hurt you. I'm pretty sure. But I didn't think Sam would hurt me either."

Bella smudged her fingers over her eyes.

"Who knows? Maybe you'll break _his _heart." Leah grimaced when she said it, so Bella knew it wasn't meant unkindly. But it made the tears come again. She was so ashamed. Leah nudged her to make her look up.

"I'll never forget what you did for me. The truck. If you need me, I'll be there. And _that_ I can promise will never change."

She nodded, and she tried to hug her, but Leah just told Bella to go away because otherwise she would start crying, too, and it would make her face look all puffy.

Bella drove home in the rain, and when she got to her driveway, she told herself to stop crying. She went inside, got her hairbrush, and drove to Angela's house.

Mrs. Weber let her in. Angela was still in her room, and her mother looked relieved that Bella had come. She spent the rest of the evening in there, and when she returned home, she was exhausted. Angela was a messy, messy, miserable person. Sloppy drunk, were the words that came to mind. She stayed until Angela had cried herself out, and then Bella found herself trying to talk about, of all things, her mother.

Renee had been sending her a lot of emails. First it was little things, about buying cereal and adopting a second cat from the Jacksonville Humane Society. Then it was about bigger things, like how Phil had a spring training game in Portland in a few weeks. Renee wanted to know if Bella would like to drive down there; she had looked up the distance, and it was four hours from Forks.

Bella had not been answering these emails. It must have been two weeks since she'd written to her mother. Much longer since she'd called on the phone. What was she supposed to say? She felt like there was a stone in her throat.

_Portland is the City of Roses, honey. Do you like roses?_

What did that mean?

_Or maybe I could drive up to Forks, _Renee wrote. _I could stay in a motel. I would like to see you and meet your friends. Charlie says you've been spending time with Billy's son and with a girl from your school. Amy? Annie? I would like to meet your friends._

Huh? Why was Renee saying these things? It made her sad, but she couldn't figure out what to say to Angela, much less to Renee.

Angela had listened supportively, though she didn't know what to say either. But she was very glad that Bella had come. "Thank you," she said. "I really needed to see you." She reached for a tissue only to find that she'd already used the last one in the box. So she blew her nose on her T-shirt. "So disgusting. Sorry. It's going in the laundry hamper as soon as you're gone."

Bella went home extremely tired and a little confused.

That was Monday.

_D major. A minor. D major. A minor. E minor. _

On Tuesday after school she called Jake's house again only to be turned away. So she went to Olympic Acres. She had checked out _Call of the Wild_ from the library wanted to go there anyway to read to Vera. She was actually looking forward to it, but when she arrived, Albertine was out and Vera was asleep. So she sat at their little table by the window and looked at Vera's crystal animals.

Under their glass dome, they twinkled dully. It seemed that Vera collected animals that lived around here. There was a deer, a mouse, a little owl. A fox. A bear, a sea lion, a bird. And a cat-like animal that could have been a cougar, but might have been only a house cat. There was also a wolf, but it seemed out of place because she knew wolves had disappeared from the area when white settlers came.

She felt strangely drawn to the animals. Carefully, silently, she lifted the dome. Vera did not stir. Bella knew this was probably rude, but she was bored and curious, so she lifted the crystal bear and turned it over in her hands. Depending on the angle, its facets held or reflected the light. Rainbows sparkled inside it.

Suddenly she was reminded of Tanya. This was how she had imagined her, that glittering, perfect woman of ice. Would she stalk a bear like this one, her white body camouflaged in the snow? What would be the bear's last thoughts at encountering something stronger than it, something that ought not to exist?

A year ago, thinking of Tanya had hurt. She'd thought she could never compare with that kind of beauty. But Edward hadn't wanted Tanya either, and now she wondered if Tanya felt just as bad. Would she be hurt forever, with her unchangeable feelings, or was her crystal heart strong enough not to crack?

Love sucked so bad. She knew many friends who had been hurt. But it was strange to know that somewhere—far, far away—was a woman who knew _exactly_ what Bella had suffered.

She turned to the sleeping Vera.

"I loved somebody once," she whispered.

Vera slept on.

"He was beautiful. He told me that he loved me, too."

Rain poured down the windows, and suddenly it was easy to talk about this. Easier, even, than talking to Leah, and Leah understood, she really did. But with Vera, once she got started, she couldn't stop.

"He used to climb in my window at night. I knew it was wrong, but also it was so right. We had secrets together. Terrible, wonderful secrets. You can't even imagine."

Vera did nothing but sigh, and Bella picked up another of the crystal animals, the deer. It felt good to hold something cold and hard in her hand. Something that sparkled. It made her feel strange, a dull thrumming in her head. Memories of Edward flooded her.

"I loved his family, too," she whispered. "Seven of them! I wanted to be like them; I wanted to be with them forever. My family is small. And my mom—"

There had always been something about Renee that did nothing but blink at her, or smile in a dreamy, sleepy way that made her feel like a favorite pet. But _his _mother— Something about _her_ settled over her like a blanket, thick and heavy. Like a hug she thought would never let go.

The words fell out of her like water. She told Vera about how she would walk in the forest with him, and how she would sit in his room listening to music. How he played the piano for her. How his house was so big and bright. How he would wait for her by her locker, and drive with her in his car, and how he said she enchanted him effortlessly, how the essence of her made him mad with love. Or longing. Or a kind of hunger that he tried many times to explain to her.

"I wish I knew someone who understood this," she sniffled. She picked up a corner of one of Vera's many mauve afghans and was about to blow her nose on it, unthinkingly, when Albertine returned.

"Oh!" cried the old lady. "Put that down!"

Bella dropped the blanket, but Albertine still seemed upset. She pried Bella's fingers open. Bella had forgotten she was still clutching one of the animals.

"Don't touch that!" Albertine's hands shook as she replaced it on the table and covered all the animals with the glass dome. "They're all she has left." Vera was stirring now, and Albertine dropped her voice to a whisper. "Her sweetheart gave them to her. He gave them to her, and he used to say she was his little dear."

Bella sighed. _His little dear. _What a sweet thing to say. Once she had been somebody's little dear, too.

She opened her book, though Vera lay still again, and read aloud about dogs and snow. Albertine liked the story. Her silver needles flashed as she worked on yet another mauve afghan. Around dinner time, Bella said goodbye and tucked the book into her backpack. That's when, finally, Vera woke up.

"Hello?" she croaked.

"Vera, it's me." Bella returned to the chair at her bedside.

"Who?"

"Bella. Your student. Well, not your student, really, but your partner. I guess." Vera seemed to stare through her, and Bella found herself babbling, eager to connect with her. "I'm from the high school, remember? From the Great Depression project?" More staring. "Your interviewer?"

"Hrrrmm," said Vera. She lifted her head, lengthening her neck, and turned toward the window, where the light of late afternoon was fading. "Al?"

"What is it, honey?"

Vera extended a claw toward the table.

"Okay," said Albertine. She lifted the dome and placed the crystal deer in Vera's hand.

"Warm," rasped Vera. She looked at Bella, her milky blue eyes seeming to see everything and nothing. Then she closed them again and lay back on her pillow.

On her way home Bella stopped at the after-hours clinic at the hospital. Dr. Gerandy had said she could come in anytime to remove the stitches on her forehead. She lay still on an examination table, feeling an odd tugging sensation, as he worked. When he was done, he handed her a mirror.

"Just a fine, white line," he said, brushing aside her hair so she could see it. "That's all."

But she knew it wasn't all. Her arm was etched with fine white lines where the broken glass from her eighteenth birthday party had cut her, and her feet were similarly marked from her night in the forest. It had started with the scratch of pine needles when she'd first lost her shoes and ended with deep cuts from shale in the streams. The gashes had healed to look like fine white lines. They would look like those first scratches forever. They would always look as if the earth were just getting started with her.

At home, Charlie had made chili for dinner. The warm, rich meal made her feel a little better. When they had eaten, she washed the dishes and called Jacob again. Still no luck. So she climbed the stairs to her room and did a little homework.

Her _Wuthering Heights _essay was due soon. She thought about Heathcliff digging up Cathy's coffin to look at her decayed features. It made her think of Edward, dead yet not dead. She'd always thought of him as transformed. She thought of the white marble angel in the Forks cemetery where her grandmother lay buried, and all of this together made her head hurt. She stared at her computer screen, the cursor flashing insistently where she ought to begin her introductory paragraph.

"Love," she typed, "is shit."

She deleted that and instead typed that love was a form of insanity. She didn't know if Mr. Bertie would like this, but she knew her groupmates were depending on her for a good grade, so she scoured her novel for supporting evidence and felt convinced, by the time she went to bed, that she'd proved her point.

And that was Tuesday.

Now it was Wednesday, and the carpet in Billy's hallway was dirty, damp, and cold.

_A minor. D major. A minor. D major._

Her fingers hurt. She was hungry.

_G major. G minor. G major. G minor._

She sat on the floor, leaning against the wall beside Jacob's door. She knew he could hear her.

_A minor. D major. C major. F major._

Her guitar felt warm from holding it so long. The vibration of the chords soothed her body, but only partly. Her heart felt so sick. She looked at the dust against the baseboards and a few tiny leaves she or Jake must have tracked in. She looked at her worn boots, the mud in the treads, and the way they smudged her jeans as she sat cross-legged. She looked at her sweater. Red. Pulled on over one of her plaid flannel shirts, the tail of which was sticking out below the sweater's waistband. She wore a long-sleeved T-shirt underneath that, but she still felt cold. She wished for one of Jacob's hugs.

_F major. F seven. G major._

"Oh, Jake," she said, and she tried to keep the sniffle out of her voice, "I'm so sorry."

Silence.

Billy rolled down the hall and gave her a peanut butter sandwich.

It had been raining when she arrived, but it had stopped now. The sky, what little she could see of it through a window in the living room, was a pale, silvery gray. She thought she could hear the caw of a crow.

_G major. G minor. G major. C major. A minor. C major. A minor._

She couldn't make herself eat the sandwich.

_E minor. E major. A minor._

The phone rang. Billy answered. "Yes, she's here." A pause. "You work too much, Charlie. Worry too much." A pause. "Let me take care of her." They said a few other things, but Bella wasn't really listening.

_A minor. A major. A minor._

A fat tear rolled down her cheek.

This was maybe the worst thing she had ever done. She tried to think if there was anything was worse. Sneaking Edward into her room at night, for months and months? Sort of wrong, but it didn't hurt anybody. Living like a zombie for more months after he left? Scaring her parents with her unresponsiveness during the day, and with her screaming at night? Losing weight, losing friends at school? Very bad, she figured, but at the time it seemed like she couldn't help it. She could hardly breathe and walk and choke down a little bit of food at dinner. It wasn't like she felt that way on purpose. And what about smashing Sam's truck? _That _was very wrong. _That_ she would never stop feeling ashamed of. But even then, she hardly knew herself. In her memory, she watched herself swinging the crutch and it seemed like it wasn't real. How could she do that? Well, she had done it. And it had hurt Sam's insurance. But even he seemed to have forgiven her.

As for the way she had hurt Jacob... She didn't know if she could forgive _herself._

That morning, Charlie had asked about her moping. He had noticed, of course, that she had been feeling bad ever since she came home from her outing with Jacob on Sunday night. "Did he hurt you?" Charlie asked. Looking at the floor, she said, No, that she had hurt him. And Charlie hugged her. "Don't hurt Jacob," he whispered. "He's a good boy."

_A minor._

"Jacob?"

Silence.

She flipped through the old songbook at her feet. The pages were bent and yellowing. In the back she found one marked, "Jacob's favorite." The penmanship was loose and round, and she wondered if it was his mother's handwriting. She tried out the chords.

_F major. C major. E minor, then a quick shift to G major and C major._

It sounded more cheerful.

"You are my sunshine," she sang.

This felt stupid. But desperate, too.

"My only sunshine."

And true.

"You make me happy when skies are gray."

Which they were, most of the time. How could she make things less painful for herself, for the people she cared about? What should she do? She closed her eyes, letting the sound fill the narrow hallway.

"You'll never know, dear, how much I—"

Jacob's door cracked open. Very quietly: "You don't have to say it."

She put the guitar down. Reached behind her to the open door. Jacob's hand met hers. The whole time, he had been sitting on his bedroom floor, leaning against his wall beside the door. Mirroring her. Their hands clasped at the threshold.

"I need to get out of here, Bells. I need to get out of this place."

He squeezed hard.

Billy changed the channel on the television. A basketball game was coming on. False cheer, a hard energy from the commentators. She saw Billy roll to the wood stove and open the door. He fed the flames with wood that Jacob had split, an orange glow flaring suddenly at the rush of fresh oxygen.

Bella squeezed Jacob's hand and rubbed her other arm across her face to dry her tears on her sleeve. When he tugged at her, she got up and followed him into his room.

Though she'd seen his room plenty of times before, she felt suddenly self-conscious. A few weeks ago, she had sat on his floor, brushing her hand listlessly over the brown carpet while he told her jokes, or told her about Quil—he had been telling her something funny, but that's all she could remember—and she had felt like wood. Or like a fish trapped under ice in a pond, ice that he'd been chipping at. She remembered, also, looking up at him while he smiled, but she couldn't smile back. Before, she hadn't noticed much about his room except that it was a little messy, and he was in it. That part seemed to matter. That part kept her alive, somehow, though she felt like she had been seeing him from a long way off.

Now she felt uncomfortable. This wasn't simply Jacob's room anymore; it was _a guy's room_, a guy for whom she had mixed-up feelings. A guy who had feelings for her. She was suddenly aware of a pile of dirty laundry in a corner, mostly jeans and T-shirts, but there was probably some underwear in there, too. She wished she hadn't thought of that. She found herself blushing, but Jacob didn't seem to notice.

He sat on his bed. It was covered with an old Pendleton blanket, red wool with a wide black stripe across it. His closet door was open, and she could see books and toys stacked on a bookcase he'd wedged in there. Legos. He probably hadn't tinkered with them in years, but it seemed perfect, somehow, that he would have liked them when he was younger. Building things. The tiny manipulations, the perfect snap of pieces falling into a pattern.

"I hate you sometimes," he said.

Her eyes went to his, but he looked away.

"And I hate myself. Why can't I just leave you alone? I set myself up for this."

He rested his forearms on his knees and leaned forward, looking down, picking at his fingernails. His face was red. Suddenly she felt a wild impulse to push him down, to sit on his chest and put her hands on either side of his face. To make him see how much she felt. She didn't know what it was; she couldn't name it; but she felt it so strong and it was all for him.

"Can we start over?" she whispered.

And that was how they ended up in Port Angeles again. It was a stupid idea. It was late afternoon when they left La Push, and it was a school night, but they went anyway, and they went on the Harley. Bella had been surprised when he rolled it out of the garage and tossed her helmet at her. Wouldn't Billy notice this, she asked, but Jacob said fuck it, that Billy already knew. He'd been suspicious and asked Harry to look in the garage, and now their secret was out. What about Charlie, asked Bella, and Jacob said to fuck that, too. His father was an asshole, but not a tattle-tale.

They blew out of La Push at sixty miles an hour. Bella was scared. She wrapped her arms around Jacob's middle and hung on as hard as she could. There was a horrible energy inside him, an anger that she'd never felt before. The wind blew so hard and cold; it whipped her hair away from her neck like fingers of ice and sliced through the knees of her jeans with stinging force. She shivered and held onto him, and in the long, straight sections of the 101, with the sun slanting low through the trees, he'd speed up, take one hand off the handlebars, and put it over hers. He pulled her hand up to his heart, and the hard warmth of his chest frightened her more.

In Port Angeles, two strange things happened. First, they saw Jessica in a coffee shop. Second, they saw the thing Jacob had been dreaming about.

When they'd arrived, Bella was deeply, deeply cold. Her lips were blue and she was shivering, and this set off a flurry of distressed emotions in Jacob. He felt like a huge jerk and an idiot for not realizing what was happening to her, for miles and miles. At the same time, he was a little freaked out that the wind hadn't bothered him a bit. Bella climbed stiffly off the bike and leaned against him, and he pulled her under his coat and held her tightly until her teeth stopped chattering. "What's wrong with me?" he said. Bella didn't care; she was just glad that one of them wasn't frozen solid.

They walked through the gray streets looking for a place to warm up. Spotting the coffee shop where she'd had a latte with Angela a couple weeks ago, Bella tugged on his hand. Inside, he urged her to sit on a small couch near the fire while he got her some hot tea.

"I'm sorry," he said when he brought it to her.

The tea was too hot to drink, so he set it on a table and took her hands, rubbing them between his own to warm them up.

"It's okay," she said, but she was still shivering.

"No. No, I mean, I'm sorry for what I said. At home."

She looked at the floor, at the yellow wood scuffed with mud from the street. Her cheeks flushed again, and she felt herself tearing up.

Putting a finger under her chin, Jacob lifted her face. His eyes were dark and sober. "I don't hate you," he whispered. "No, not at all. Bella, I—"

"You don't have to say it," she whispered back.

He slid onto the sofa beside her and tucked her under his coat again. "I shouldn't have said that. I just— I hate this situation. Sometimes I hate everything; I hate my father. I love him. I hate him."

She nodded.

"I hate what's happening around here. I hate how I feel. Everything hurts some days; everything pisses me off. And I hate _this." _Taking her hand, he placed it on his neck. She could feel his pulse jump beneath her fingers, fast and hot. His skin seemed feverish. "Something's wrong with me. I hate this."

_Need. Please. Mine._

"Nothing's wrong with you." It was her turn to make him look at her; she wiggled out from under his arm and held his eyes. "Nothing. You're a good person, Jacob."

He grimaced.

"You _are. _And I— I'm sorry, too. For what I said in the pizza place." Here she lay her cheek on his sweater, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him. "Friends. Other types of things. Stuff. You know." She hoped he couldn't see how red her face was. "Maybe we don't— Maybe this— Maybe we don't need a label."

He let out a tremendous sigh, took her hand again, and held it to his lips. "Good," he mumbled. "Don't label this."

The fire in the hearth glowed brightly. She watched the flames, and slowly, as Jacob smoothed his hands over her shoulders, she relaxed. She liked the hush of his palms over her wool coat and the warmth of his fingers as he slid her collar open at her neck and lay his hand there. When he buried his nose in her hair she stiffened, but he only said, "Shh," and "Don't label this either. Let me." He breathed deeply, and she softened on his chest as he brushed his fingers over her eyebrows, her cheekbones, along her jaw. He touched her so softly. "Let me."

_Yours._

"These last few days were horrible," he mumbled against her scalp.

She nodded.

"I don't want to be apart from you."

She nodded again, brushing her hand over his sweater, laying it on his waist. And then he said the thing she suddenly knew he'd been dying to say for months, but which she was only now ready to hear: "If you ever want to talk about it. About _him. _I'm right here."

She had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing out loud. "Shh," he kept saying. "I'm here. Always."

Something settled inside her then. Something that had been fluttering in desperation for a long time. The panic. The bile, the nausea. As if her heart were a bird, beating itself against a window that would never open again. But she wasn't trapped indoors. She'd been on the other side of the glass, unbound in the light of day, all along.

The things that happened next hardly seemed to matter. They'd noticed Jessica Stanley on the other side of the coffee shop, deep in conversation with a young man. He wore tight black jeans and a newish maroon rain parka; his blond hair was cut long on top and gelled back into what she supposed was an ironically hip _Happy Days_-ish, Richie Cunningham look, but the thing she noticed, besides than the fact that he was more stylish than just about everybody in Forks, was the way he was nibbling on Jessica's ear. Bella stared at them. Jessica didn't seem to have noticed her, and as Bella watched, the young man put his arm around her and pulled her closer. Jessica seemed uncomfortable then. She squirmed and kept removing his hands from the inside of her jacket. Jacob seemed uncomfortable, too, watching them.

"You know them?" he asked Bella.

"I know her. She seems kind of—"

"Yeah." Jacob frowned. Then, to Bella's surprise—though she reflected later that she probably shouldn't have been surprised—Jacob got up and approached them. He seemed a little taller.

"Is this guy bothering you?"

Jessica turned around and flushed with embarrassment. Then she noticed Bella and went redder with another emotion.

The blond man stood up and eyed Jacob coolly. He whispered something to Jessica and walked out. He pulled a key fob from his pocket and with a click, he set the lights flashing on—of all things—an electric blue hatchback with gleaming silver rims, dark-tinted windows, and a VW in a circle on the grille. And on the back—

"The R-32..." said Jacob. If Jessica hadn't been glaring at them so hard, Bella would have laughed at the way his jaw went slack. The man drove off. _Peninsula College_ said his bumper sticker.

Jessica called Bella something horrible, something that made Jacob bristle, and then she left, too, headed home in her parents' Mercedes.

"Oh, my God," said Jacob when they had gone.

"That was nice of you," said Bella. "She'll kill me later, but you were—"

"Oh, oh, oh," he said. "That car. That _asshole. _Life is so unfair."

"Don't cry," said Bella.

"I'll never have that. Never in a million years." He sat down and cupped his hands over his nose, breathing rapidly. "I never saw one before. It's real, it's real! And that guy—"

"Slow down," said Bella. "Breathe. You're just upset because—"

"Because life is shit!" He fluttered his hands and cupped them over his nose again. The Rabbit, Bella gathered from his moans, was in bad shape. He had done his best; he had thought he was almost there, but the left CV boot was just bleeding grease, leaking really bad, and worse, yesterday he'd discovered a crack in the engine block. It was the end. No way to repair that. All his hopes. He had all these plans, and he had wanted to do things for her.

"It's okay," she said.

"No, it's not!"

Bella knelt in front of his chair. She tried to make him drink her tea.

"Tea!" he said.

"Okay. Shh. Jake. Jake, you don't have to do those things for me."

"But I want to!"

"No, you don't need to. You and me. You and me. That's all."

Bella couldn't think of anything else to say. She lifted her tea cup again and held it out, then thought better of it.

Walking back to the Harley, she held his hand. The sun had gone down now, and a cool mist was blowing up the streets from the harbor. She watched his face in the yellow glow of the streetlights. He seemed dazed. And then he apologized. It was wrong of him, he said, to worry so much over material possessions.

"What?"

That was not how he was raised. Not how he was supposed to act. "Oh, God, I'm glad it was you. If anyone else saw this— If my father—"

She tried to tell him it was perfectly normal to want nice things, but he said no. Firmly no. It was over. The Rabbit was dead, the R-32 was a hopeless, naive daydream, and there was no use in crying over something you could never have. He squeezed her hand very hard with those words, and Bella said no more.

On the way home, he let her wear his coat over her own. She clung to him as they sped through the dusk. The black pines gave way, here and there, to broad stretches of meadow. There, in the purple twilight, tall grasses swayed in the wind. In one of those meadows they surprised a herd of deer. Bella thought they'd run into the forest, but they didn't. Instead, they leaped beside the road, a dozen or more, leaping so close to her as Jacob slowed so she could enjoy the sight. She could see their soft brown sides, their hooves and black noses. Their bright eyes.

So alive. Leaping.

_Me, _she thought. _ Maybe me. Maybe Jacob, again, if I help him. Maybe us._

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading. Please, please review. It encourages me to keep going. I am in the process of final edits. <em>

_If you can, please tell me what you think about these things._

_1. Angela's hurt feelings over what Ben said to the others at school._

_2. Leah and Bella's conversation about Sam._

_3. Vera's collection of crystal animals._

_4. Jacob's decision to forgive Bella._

Thank you. I'll send previews with my thank you notes to your reviews.

Oh, dear readers, I hope to hear from you again after the long break I took to finish this story. YOU are my sunshine, dear readers, and I hope you'll leave me a note.


	27. Chapter 27 Friday the Thirteenth

_Dear Readers,_

_Thanks to Blue Moon and nothingwrong2013 for their reviews. I really appreciate your words! Blue Moon, if you can log in before you review, I'll be able to write to you to thank you better. Guest reviewers (not logged in) might not see their reviews posted for a little while because I have to log into my own account and post them from a holding pen/queue thingy. And nothinwrong, your account doesn't accept PMs (and you probably planned it that way!), so I'll just have to thank you here. Thanks very much! I hope I'll hear from you again._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-seven<strong>

**Friday the Thirteenth**

Friday the thirteenth. Seriously. Like, the thirteenth day of February and it has to be on a Friday. Bella opened her eyes in the morning and then lay in bed, stiff as a poker, calculating the chances of having a good day. With her luck, zero.

The sun was shining. _How odd. _It was a bright, cold morning. No wind today, and the pines at the edge of her yard, at the edge of the forest, were still. She peered over the side of her bed. Perhaps there would be a humongous spider on the floor. No spiders? Well, surely something bad would happen later.

Thursday the Twelfth had been quite pleasant. In English class, she had given her _Wuthering Heights_ presentation with Cody, Jim, and Brandon. They hadn't rehearsed, and she was cringing the whole time she read from her essay, because behind her the boys were assembling an odd graveyard tableau. Jim shoved half the things on Mr. Berty's desk to the side—earning a raised eyebrow on the otherwise impassive face of the teacher, who leaned cooly against a bookcase in the back of the room—and spread on it a green fleece jacket. She thought it was supposed to be grass in the churchyard. Brandon emptied a handful of gravel from his pocket to represent a low, stone wall, and Jim arranged two Ken dolls against two fist-sized rocks that she supposed were tombstones. They each wore one of Barbie's long, black, sequined evening gowns that had been cut up the middle to resemble long coats: one for Heathcliff, one for the sexton. Somebody's little sister was going to be furious. Holding a shoebox painted to resemble a coffin, Cody stood beside the desk. And Bella was supposed to talk about love.

"Love," she said. Everyone was staring at her, and the pages of her essay fluttered in her hands. "The emotion Heathcliff is feeling right now is not really love. It's more like torture."

More staring.

"I mean, love is torture, sure, but Heathcliff is feeling extra tortured."

"Extra tortured," said Mr. Berty.

"He wants to be with Cathy, and she's dead, and he thinks about this all the time. Love and death. He asks that he be buried next to her, and that the sides of their coffins be left open so their dust can be co-mingled."

"Ew," said Eric Yorkie. Sitting in the front row, he looked painfully confused, which only made Bella more nervous.

"This feeling Heathcliff has, it's not love. It's something else. Something made of revenge and death and possessiveness. And pain. And death. And violence. Also, death." This had sounded better when she wrote it down, but she was too flustered to find the right paragraph in her essay. "Therefore," she finished, "Bronte's portrayal of love is more like a portrayal of madness. It's not love; it's insanity. Also, death."

Here, as if in a grand finale, Cody opened his shoebox and shook about a pound of dirt onto Mr. Berty's desk. Tumbling onto the dirt pile was a Barbie doll shrouded in what looked like half a roll of toilet paper, and some worms of wet spaghetti.

Nobody said anything. Slowly, a clump of spaghetti slid to the floor with a squishy sound.

"This is disgusting," said Mr. Berty at last. "I don't like your creative use of my desk. Or my floor. However, I think you've cut right to the heart of the novel." He made a small marking in his grade book. "A minus."

Cody whooped. He and Brandon and Jim crushed her in a hug.

That had been nice. Really nice, thought Bella. She sat up in bed and stretched. Lunch yesterday had been nice, too. She and Angela had been hovering in the doorway of the cafeteria, unsure about where to sit. Anywhere except with Lauren. Mike had been sitting _alone, _day after day, at the edge of the patio, barely dry from the rain, and he'd made it clear he wanted no company from anyone. So Bella and Angela looked around the room for a place to sit, and to Bella's surprise, they were invited to sit with her partners from English class and their friends on the basketball team.

"Who's this?" said one of the guys.

"This is Bella," said Brandon proudly. "She's our nerd."

"Best nerd ever," said Cody.

Angela was made equally welcome. When asked about their defection from the hive of Forks High's queen bee, the girls gave a much-edited account.

"Whatever," said one of the guys. "Lauren Mallory is a skanky ho."

"A hot skanky ho," said another.

Bella and Angela just sat back, watching the conversation bounce around the team like— Well, like a basketball.

"You like that skanky ho. You spent half of last spring in her skanky-ass car."

"So did you."

"_My_ feet don't walk on skanky rugs."

"Your feet never walked anywhere."

"I heard she has crabs."

"Shit. I thought it was jock itch."

"Me, too. Shit."

_That_ had been awesome. Not the jock itch-might-be-crabs part, but the look at Lauren Mallory's dirty laundry. _Ha. _Bella couldn't help but wonder if her crankiness were related to this infection. When lunch was over and they were walking to Physics class, Angela whispered, "Lauren puts the _itch_ in _bitch._" It cracked her up.

But now it was Friday the Thirteenth, and Bella had to get out of bed. If only she could relive Thursday the Twelfth. After school she and Jake and Leah had driven up to Port Angeles to buy a birthday gift for Quil. His birthday was on Saturday. It felt like the rift between her and Jacob was healed; it felt like they were closer than ever, and it was fun to be with Leah, and now... _Crap. _It was still Friday the Thirteenth.

She looked at the floor. No spiders. Very carefully, she slipped out of bed and walked to her closet. She paused halfway across the room, over a strangely heavy spot on the floor, feeling an odd sensation in her head. A dizzy, dreary feeling. She almost forgot what she intended to do. But she shook it off and chose a blue sweater and a pair of jeans from her closet. She looked at the sweater for a long time. It was a deep, sapphire blue. Edward had said he liked that color on her, and Alice had lent her that beautiful blue prom dress. For a long time, she'd avoided thinking about this color, much less wearing it. But on their shopping trip to Port Angeles, Angela had persuaded her to buy the sweater.

"You look so pretty," Angela had said.

Bella put her hand on the blue sweater. It made her light skin look lighter. Almost like—

No, she would not think of that. And she would not let an unhappy memory keep her from wearing a pretty color. Pleased with herself, she stepped back from the closet. Suddenly she felt dizzy again. Maybe she should put the sweater back. Her stomach felt funny.

Charlie hollered up the stairs that she was going to be late for school if she didn't get in the shower soon. She shook her head to clear it.

In the bathroom, she gingerly peeled off the large bandage on the back of her thigh so she could put on a fresh one. When she looked at her road rash in the mirror, however, she saw that it was healed. Healed! She had to bend over and check it from several angles with her handheld mirror. It wasn't completely gone, but it was so, so much better that she didn't need a bandage anymore. For a moment, she felt excited and pleased. Then her skin crawled with dread. Surely, if her morning started out this well, she had probably used up all her luck for the day.

Charlie had breakfast with her. Already dressed in his black uniform, he was making waffles, pouring batter into a small, pink waffle iron on the counter.

"I didn't know we had one of those," she said.

"Joy gave it to me."

_Great. Evil waffles. _

He placed two light and fluffy waffles on her plate and passed her a bowl of freshly whipped honey-butter and a bottle of locally tapped maple syrup, saying that Joy had given these to him, too. And here, he added, opening the refrigerator, was a jar of her homemade blackberry jam.

"Look at this little spoon," he said, dipping into the jar with a tiny silver utensil that looked like something British people would use for tea and crumpets. "It's just the right size." It looked ridiculous in his large hand as he dabbed some jam on her waffles.

Bella frowned at her plate.

When he'd finished making the waffles, he sat down at the table with her. "Nice day, isn't it?" He said a few other things, too, like "mmm" and "yep" but Bella was only half listening. The other half of her attention was wrestling with moral questions. Questions such as _How hungry am I, really? _ and _How much trouble would I be in if I set these waffles on fire? _

As Charlie ate, he updated her on the search for the missing hiker in the Park.

"No clues yet, except that we might have a grizzly bear out there."

"A grizzly?" Bella remembered what those hippies had said to Mike at Newton's.

"I don't know how a grizzly could get here. Certainly not walking. Could someone have released an exotic pet? It makes no sense. I wasn't on the trails yesterday, but Uley and Hathaway were out there—"

"What about Paul?"

"In school. Anyway, right about noon, Matt sees this huge gray bear running through the trees. He won't say he panicked, but he acted out of character. He couldn't see it well, but he took a shot at it and nipped its hindquarters. It yelped like a dog. Took off."

"Weird."

"And bears aren't gray. I'm telling you, there's something not right about this whole situation."

_My thoughts exactly, _thought Bella, but she was looking at her waffles and the pink waffle iron from whose hateful loins they had sprung.

* * *

><p>Due to a teachers' inservice day, classes were shortened and school let out at one o'clock. Was this fun? No. Bella was sure it was only laying the scene for more bad luck. She stood in the parking lot making plans with Angela to visit the old ladies for dinner, and the whole time she kept thinking that surely, something was bound to go wrong at any moment.<p>

"See you at work, Bella," called Mike.

Oh, yeah. Work.

Mrs. Newton had taken advantage of the shortened school day to schedule extra hours for Bella. There went her free time. She said goodbye to Angela and climbed into her rusty old truck. As she drove across town, the engine made a wheezing noise. That couldn't be good.

She was compelled to clean the restroom, as usual, and then she stood at the cash register for almost two hours. "Isn't there something else I could do?" she asked. But Mrs. Newton said no, things were quiet today. Only one customer came in, to buy some batteries for a flashlight, and the register did not malfunction as she rang up the purchase. This made her nervous.

When she got to Olympic Acres around four, she was convinced that something very, very bad was just waiting to happen. And unfortunately, she was right.

Vera was not in her room, nor was she in the dining hall. Bella and Angela sat down to tea with Albertine and Mr. Horowitz in Albertine's room. "Call me Reginald," said Mr. Horowitz, and he actually smiled. He had twinkling brown eyes.

_Who is this guy?_ thought Bella.

Angela opened her notebook at the little dinette table near the window. Very carefully, Albertine shifted Vera's crystal animals to the side. One of them seemed to be missing, but Bella hadn't exactly inventoried the collection. It just seemed like they weren't all there. She only thought about this for a moment, though, because Angela was telling Albertine about their latest assignment.

Mrs. Kranz had asked the class to gather information about how the Great Depression had shaped the rest of their Seniors' lives. Albertine talked about economy, clipping coupons, and never wasting food. Never, never. And she made all her children and grandchildren clean their plates. Mr. Horowitz described rationing during World War II. People understood it was the right thing to do because of the war effort, and many of them had already been accustomed to doing without. He loved history, he said, just loved it. In his room he kept scrapbooks of old photos and newspaper clippings. He rolled across the hall and returned with a brown folder of old postage stamps and two real ration stamps for butter.

"Oooooh..." said Angela.

_Blah, blah, blah,_ thought Bella. How was she going to complete this assignment? She didn't even know where Vera _was,_ and suddenly it occurred to her that she might have been taken to the hospital. Or worse, maybe she was _dead._ She sat straight up in her chair.

"Where's Vera?!" she cried.

The others looked up from the folder of stamps.

"Is she okay?"

"Yes, dear, she's fine." Then Albertine frowned at the table. "Well, not fine. She's in the solarium. With the piano."

"Having one of her days," added Mr. Horowitz. His smile vanished.

Albertine offered to help Bella with her part of the assignment, and Angela put the stamps away. Mr. Horowitz clinked his tea cup down on its saucer and rolled to the window. Pushing aside the curtains, he looked at the garden. A few flowers had reappeared, some daffodils risking the spring weather again, but mostly the ground was muddy and strewn with brown leaves from last fall. He lifted his head and watched the pine tops. They were perfectly still, rising above the mist.

"After the Depression," said Albertine, "Vera wasn't feeling so well."

Of course she hadn't been well, thought Bella. Her whole family had died, except for her father, and her fiancé had skipped town on the morning of their wedding.

"Her father had to go to work in the lumber camps, and it was so hard for him, after what happened to Bertram."

Bella nodded. She took out her notebook and began to write this down.

"He sent home money, but Vera was living alone, and... Well..."

"She wouldn't eat," said Mr. Horowitz. His voice was hard. He kept his eyes on the garden.

"She wasn't feeling well," said Albertine. "Oh, dear, I already said that." She wrung her hands together, then reached for her knitting needles as a way to occupy herself. Angela passed her a skein of mauve yarn. "It's for Vera," Albertine said. She waved a hand at the many mauve afghans on Vera's bed. "She's always cold, you know."

Bella nodded again.

"Well, with her father gone, she needed someone to help her. So she came to live with my family. And after Donald and I were married, she sometimes lived with us. And sometimes she had a place of her own."

"Where she _wouldn't eat," _growled Mr. Horowitz.

"Are you going to let me tell this story?" said Albertine. "Or are you going to be a pain?"

"You tell it wrong."

"You tell it crazy." Albertine glared at him. More quietly, she hissed, "Don't listen to him, girls; he's a crazy old man."

"Bah!" said Mr. Horowitz. He flapped his hand dismissively at Albertine and went to back to staring out the window.

"As I was saying, Vera wasn't feeling well. After a while, she got a job as a librarian. It was good for her. She was assigned to the bindery in a back room, and there she repaired books for her career."

Mr. Horowitz made another dismissive grunt.

"She was good at it," said Albertine. "And she didn't have to talk to anyone very much, so... Oh, that sounds wrong." Albertine looked at her knitting. She had dropped a few stitches. "Well, she was good at it. She liked it." More stitches dropped. "Or, she didn't _not _like it. And so that's what she did."

"Okay." Bella wrote this down. "What about her father?"

"He logged. Everyone did, it seemed. But he was too old for that kind of work. It's rough out there, you know, and men couldn't drive home at the end of the day. They'd be out there in the camps for a few weeks at a time. It rained a lot, of course, and everything was always damp, and after a while..."

"Pneumonia," said Mr. Horowitz.

Albertine looked pained.

"Oh," said Bella. "That's really sad." Suddenly she thought of her own father and how ill he had looked before she began making an effort to recover. "After he died, wasn't there anyone else in Vera's life? Anyone she cared about, and who cared about her?"

"Me," said Albertine firmly. "She had me."

The girls packed up their notebooks and finished their tea. Bella said she might go to the solarium to say hello to Vera. She expected that Vera might not reply, but she still thought it would be polite to go see her. Asking Angela to wait for her in the cafeteria, Bella started down the hall.

That was the beginning of the bad, bad luck.

The solarium was a room she had never seen before. She had to wander down a wrong hallway or two before she met a nurse who pointed her in the right direction. As she headed down yet another hallway, she could see a light ahead, many panels of glass across one wall of the room. The afternoon light was gray and dull, and mist obscured the view outside.

_A solarium in Forks. What a joke._

As she approached, Bella could hear music. The piano sounded beautiful. Suddenly she was eager to see Vera, eager to see how she must have come alive to produce something so lovely. She remembered that index card she had read, weeks ago, when she and Angela had chosen their Seniors for this partner-project. It said that Vera sometimes played the piano. How wonderful.

The sound was lilting, a slow, gentle melody above major chords, sweet and clear, and every now and then a minor chord was struck, only to be washed away again in bright, hopeful majors. It sounded like love. It sounded like love would sound, if love could become a song.

And then it sounded like _love._

It sounded like the song of the one she had loved.

It sounded like _the song_ that the one she had loved had written for _her._

Bella stood in the doorway, trembling all over. At the piano, with her back to Bella, Vera stroked her hands over the keys with no hint of hesitation or uncertainty, as if she could play this song blind. She _was_ nearly blind, and this song was pouring out of her as if it had always, always been in her mind. Vera was dressed in a pink bathrobe. Her feet, clad in mauve knitted slippers, worked the gold pedals with smooth assurance.

Bella stared at Vera's head, at her wispy white hair. Then she looked at her hands, gnarled and blue-veined, passing over the keys. And then she slid to to the floor.

_How could this be possible?_

Her mind raced frantically in many directions, but at each turn she hit a dead end. No, no, no. There was no way this could be possible. Was she hallucinating? She looked at her hand as if she expected to see a mess of purple tentacles, but it looked normal. "Vera?" she tried to say, but only a whisper would come out. She could hardly breathe. Slowly, she keeled over and held her arms around her stomach as the old pain returned, snarling viciously inside her.

It might have been only a few minutes, but it felt like hours of agony before someone found her there.

"Girlie," said Mr. Horowitz. He nudged her with the footrest of his wheelchair. "Get up."

The music stopped with a discordant crash.

"Are you sick, girlie?"

Bella opened her eyes. She tried to stand, but she could barely manage to crawl into a folding chair near the doorway.

When Vera turned around, Bella wasn't sure if the old woman was seeing her or not. Her hand reached like a claw for a small, sparkling object on the piano. The crystal deer. She slipped it into the pocket of her bathrobe.

"That song," Bella gasped.

"Oh, she always plays that," said Mr. Horowitz. To Vera, he said, "For God's sake, you old bat, can't you learn some other song? It's been seventy years."

Vera made no reply.

"That song," said Bella again.

"Oh, it was her favorite when we were in school. Used to hear it on the radio all the time."

"The radio?"

"Sure. At least I _think_ it was the radio. Anyway, it was very popular. Can't say as I ever liked it." And here he muttered something about useless, sappy sentimentality.

"Rot," croaked Vera, pointing at him. She coughed and coughed, and then she finished, "In hell."

"Bah!" He flapped his hand at her. "She plays it all the time because that Culpepper used to play it."

Vera stood up on legs that wobbled.

"Bertram played it, too, but he played it better."

"Edgar," croaked Vera, wobbling toward the door.

Bella stood up to let her pass. Her head felt so strange. She kept blinking and blinking. When the old woman reached her, she placed a pale hand on Bella's blue sweater. It made her skin look white as marble. She made a raspy humming noise in the back of her throat, and then she shuffled down the hall.

"The radio?" said Bella.

"The radio, some sheet music, maybe. I don't know. She and that Culpepper used to sit in her parlor and play it, and then Bertram learned it and upstaged him nicely. Oh, how I laughed." His whiskery chin wrinkled with a smile, and he closed his eyes, as if savoring the memory. He asked her what she was writing for school.

"An essay?" Bella wasn't sure anymore.

"A true essay?"

"Yes. I guess. Yes."

"Vera and Albertine don't like the truth. It's ugly. When you're ready for some cold, hard facts, you come to me."

Angela walked into the room then, and Mr. Horowitz rolled away.

"Are you okay?" said Angela. "You look kind of weird. Do you need some dinner? Albertine is waiting for us in the dining hall."

Bella shook her head to clear it. She told Angela that she was just very tired and wanted to go home. Angela looked like she didn't believe her, but she walked with her out to her truck. "Call me later if you feel sick, okay? I'll come over and bring you some soup."

The mist had turned to rain. Her truck made that wheezing sound again, but she paid it little attention. She turned on her windshield wipers as she drove home, and as they sloshed the water back and forth over the glass, her feelings sloshed back and forth inside her. Sad. Sadder. Sad. Sadder. And then _angry!_

This was awful! Awful! She could not believe that the lullaby Edward had written for her, or that he _said_ he had written, was just a tired old tune from the thirties. It had made her feel so special, and now it was just a song that somebody else's sweetheart used to play for _her_! And how utterly ironic that both Vera and herself should be jilted by people who played that song. That was just great. By the time she got home, she was fuming.

She got out of her truck and stood in her driveway in the rain, looking for something to do with her feelings. She took a handful of gravel from the ground and threw it, but it was nowhere near as satisfying as throwing a stone. It just sprayed apart in the air and sprinkled into the grass. Then she threw another handful of gravel at her truck. It made a nice pinging sound. She thought for a moment about getting a big stick and hitting her truck, but then she felt like an idiot. She had smashed enough trucks to last her a lifetime, and it would be stupid to smash her own.

Oh, she was a stupid, stupid girl. She had believed everything Edward said. She had believed he loved her, and she had believed he wrote that song. He must have lied to her! _Thanks a lot, Edward!_

In the house, she took off her wet coat and left it on the living room floor. Then she stomped upstairs to her room. She tried playing her guitar, but it didn't help much. She was so mad that she thought about smashing that, too, so she set it down and shoved her fingers through her hair.

This really sucked! She could just imagine Edward in the nineteen thirties, living in Hoquiam. He would have been driving around in a Model T, probably thinking that he had a cool car. _Stupid, shiny Model T!_ And he would have worn a stupid little hat and some stupid knickerbockers. Of course, since he was seventeen forever, he would have attended the high school and yawned his way through class with his pretend yawns, and he would have made pretend mistakes on his assignments to hide the fact that this was all old news to him. Just like that song. He must have learned it then, since Mr. Horowitz said it was popular.

What a horrible song! She hated it now. Edward played it and he left her, and that stupid Edgar Culpepper had played it and he left Vera, and for all she knew, Hoquiam was just filled with jerks who played that song and left their girlfriends. Oh, she hated Hoquiam, too! What a horrible town!

She kicked the wall. She kicked it again and again until she hurt her toe. What rotten luck! What a rotten, miserable day!

Cradling her foot, she sat on the floor. Her anger gave way to tears. Then she trembled and felt cold all over. Mr. Horowitz had said he _thought _it was from the radio. Or _maybe_ it was from some sheet music. He wasn't _certain_.

A question came into her mind...

But then she began to feel dizzy. A little nauseated. She lay down with her face on the floor, shivering and shivering. She could hardly keep her eyes open. When she closed them she saw herself standing in the doorway of the solarium. _Vera?_ And then she saw herself in the forest, bleeding. The night came down hard. Words slid from her mind, and she became an animal, lost. The dream. The deer. The ice. It closed over her.

After a long while, a voice came through the ice. It sounded so far away.

"Bella? You can't leave your wet coat on the floor. It'll ruin the wood."

_Ruin. _

_Wood._

She tried to make a sound.

And then feet appeared in front of her, and she heard a man's voice saying, "No, no, no, oh, Bella, don't do this. Bella, no." And a sound like tears. She was lifted into warm arms.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading. I'd like to say that Lauren doesn't "deserve" to have an STI because she's mean, and certainly not because she has more than one partner. Nothin' wrong with that. Go, Lauren. But a reviewer helped me be more cognizant of how I presented that scene. STIs aren't cast upon Lauren like karmic payback. Not that I think YOU think that. But she should have told her partners about her health. Condoms can't prevent every STI. And Lauren's unfortunate problem will be a plot point later. Can you think of any character whose job it is to inform teens about sexual health? Hmm….. Maybe Lauren should meet that person. <em>

_Please leave me a note. Could you tell me what you think about these things?_

_1. What do you suppose Deputy Hathaway shot in the woods?_

_2. Why is Bella so slow to put the clues about Vera's past together? There is more than one reason that I'm trying to convey. One reason is Bella's innate obtuseness, unfortunately. Come on. We love her, and she's really trying, but she has limits. And the other reason is... Well... Are my clues working?_

_Do please review. Please? I am eager to know what you think! Thank you._


	28. Chapter 28 Still Friday the Thirteenth

_Author's Note: Thanks to nothinwrong 2013, Blue Moon, and other guest reviewers. Very glad to hear from you. Thank you! If you wonder where the heck your reviews have gone after typing them, don't worry. I just have to get around to logging in to my account and press a button to post them from my end. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 28<strong>

**Still Friday the Thirteenth**

When Bella woke up, she was on the couch. She sat up and blinked. Her head felt clear and her stomach wasn't hurting anymore. Charlie was on the phone in the kitchen, and he sounded worried.

"Like when we pulled her out of the woods," he was saying. "She can't seem to wake up completely, and I—"

"Dad?" she called.

Charlie hung up the phone and hurried to her. His face looked pinched and pale; his hands were unsteady.

"Oh, Bella, I thought I was losing you again." He sat on the coffee table and looked at her carefully. Looked at her eyes. He took her hands and rubbed them between his own. Then he stopped, tilting his head to one side, and looked at her more. "Your hands were so cold. But now—"

"I feel fine. Who was on the phone?"

"I called Dr. Gerandy. Are you sure you're okay?"

Bella felt confused. She had been in her room, angry about how Edward's song was just an old tune from the thirties. Also she had stubbed her toe. And there was something else that bothered her, but she couldn't remember what it was.

"What happened?" said Charlie.

"I guess I fainted. I felt so tired all of a sudden and my stomach hurt."

"Well, you scared me half to death." He passed a hand over his face. "I was worried you were thinking about— Well, I'm just glad you're okay. When's the last time you ate anything?"

"Lunch?"

"Let's get some dinner in you."

Jake had left a message on the answering machine inviting her to watch a movie and have some spaghetti with his cousins. Charlie urged her to go, so she went upstairs and brushed her hair. Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, she thought that she did look kind of peaked. She washed her face. When she came downstairs again, she saw that Charlie had changed out of his uniform into clean jeans and a forest green wool sweater. His hair was neatly trimmed; it seemed that he had gone to the barbershop this afternoon. And there was a tiny heart-shaped box of chocolates tied with a pink ribbon on the coffee table.

That's when she remembered that it was still Friday the Thirteenth.

"For me?" she said weakly.

"I'm really glad you're feeling okay. Tomorrow is Quil's birthday, you know, so Joy and I thought we'd have dinner tonight. She's cooking something special, and I'm bringing dessert." He rattled the box of chocolates.

Definitely Friday the Thirteenth.

"How about we drive to La Push together," she said, "and I'll come and get you when it's time to go home." _I'll come and get you after fifteen minutes, and I'll close my eyes and bang on the door until you come out._

"No can do. I might be there a while."

She began to feel slightly nauseated again. Charlie was whistling as he put on his jacket. As he left, he hollered over his shoulder that she ought to call Jacob and let him know that she was coming.

_Yes. Call Jacob. _That would be a good distraction. _Have a movie. Watch some spaghetti._

She called him. And she asked for Quil's number. As she was about to dial it, however, the front door opened again.

"I'm back," called Charlie. He strode into the kitchen. "Listen, I forgot to tell you— Well, I know I've said this before, but please, do not go hiking. We might have a murderer out there, and after what Matt did this morning, now we've got a bear with a bullet in his backside. Wounded animals are very dangerous." Then he was gone again. From the kitchen window, she watched him back the cruiser out of the driveway.

_Crap. _ She paced in the kitchen, wringing her hands. That didn't help much, so she opened the freezer and let the cold air float over her face. There, in a resealable plastic bag, were some extra waffles that Charlie had made that morning. She closed the freezer and resumed pacing. And when she was reasonably sure that she wouldn't be sick, she called Quil, hoping his mother wouldn't answer the phone. Fortunately, she didn't.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" drawled Quil.

"Quick, what's your mom doing right now?"

"She's making me dinner."

"She is?"

"Yeah." He sighed smugly. "Don't you wish you were here. I'm going to have a warm spinach salad topped with fresh shallots, crumbled bacon, and candied pecans, followed by a main course of chicken alfredo over linguini and a side of baby carrots roasted in honey and rosemary."

"Oh, no! And what's she wearing?"

"Kind of a personal question, don't you think?"

"Just tell me!"

"Well, she's— Hang on." She heard him set the phone on a table, and then he was back with, "She's wearing a dress."

"A dress? Oh, no! What kind?"

"It's..." Quil's voice trailed off. "It's kind of... short. And it's got flowers on it, and the neckline is kind of... low. And she's wearing a necklace, too."

"Shit. Quil, that dinner is not for you."

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then a clattering noise.

"Quil?"

"Sorry. I dropped the phone. Bella, there's a candle on the table. Please tell me your dad is at work."

She had to tell him the truth. "You got ten, maybe fifteen more minutes until he gets there. Can you throw the chicken on the floor? Make it look like an accident?"

"No, she chased me out of the kitchen. She said she was making a surprise! This is a horrible surprise!"

"You've got to do something. Sit at the table with them and talk about rotten fish or something like that."

"I'm not going to sit at the table with them!" he gasped.

"Well, you've got to do _something!_ Just don't leave the house."

He made a whimpering noise that sounded like agreement.

* * *

><p>When Bella got to La Push, it had stopped raining and the sun was going down. The sky over the marina was streaked with orange. Her truck had made that strange wheezing noise again, all the way there, but it stopped when she pulled into Jacob's driveway. She found him in the garage, leaning over the Rabbit's engine with Embry. The two of them looked like mourners at a funeral, peering into the casket. She tried to look over their shoulders, but even when they were bending over, they were so tall it was impossible, so she squeezed between them.<p>

"Can you see it, Bells?" asked Jacob.

She wasn't sure what she was supposed to be looking for.

"Right there," said Embry. He shone a flashlight on the engine block and pointed to a tiny, dark line. "It's cracked."

"It doesn't look so bad," she said, but Embry said that it was. Very bad. It was only a matter of time—a short matter of time—before the engine failed completely. Jacob dropped the hood and leaned against the car, his hands over his face. Bella knew he had cleaned this thing inside and out with a _toothbrush_, and he was kicking himself for not noticing this sooner.

She thought about the motorcycle parts she had bought for him when he was fixing up the bikes. "Maybe I could chip in for a new one," she offered, but Jacob just groaned through his fingers.

"It could cost six hundred dollars. Maybe more than a thousand."

Oh. There didn't seem to be anything else to say, except that she was very sorry about it.

"What does it need?" asked Embry.

"For fuck's sake, it needs a new engine."

"No, I mean, besides that."

"A CV boot. But who cares?" He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. "Oh, Bella, I'm sorry. I wanted to take you places."

"We can still go places." She nudged his toe with her sneaker. "Come on, Jake. Don't forget about my lean, mean, driving machine out there."

He snorted.

"Well, it's mean, at least." She hated to see him so sad. "Should we go watch the movie? Do something fun?"

He took another deep breath and wiped his eyes again. "Collin and Brady are already here. They're trying to cook the spaghetti, I think, so we better go in there. You coming, Emb?"

Embry shook his head.

"Billy's out with Harry."

"Well... Okay."

The house was warm. There was a fire crackling in the wood stove and steam coming from a pot of boiling water in the kitchen. Collin and Brady had tracked leaves across the brown carpet and over the linoleum. Getting a broom, Jacob called them a pair of turds, and they responded with a string of words she hadn't expected to hear from the mouths of twelve year olds. But they were smiling. Bella had met them once before, at the birthday party. They were each tall and skinny with dark hair and brown eyes. Their hands were too big and their enormous shoes seemed out of place on seventh graders, and they thumped around the kitchen with gangly awkwardness. Collin's hair was long on top, hanging in his eyes, and Brady wore a fuzzy crew cut. He had dimples when he smiled.

Jacob tried to explain the relationship. "First cousins with me from my dad's sisters—who are twins—and first cousins to each other, and second cousins with Quil. Also Brady is cousins with Leah on his dad's side. And Emb."

"Embry is cousins with Leah?" she said.

"No, with Collin. And Brady."

"And Quil," said Embry. "But second cousins."

Bella was confused. "So Quil is cousins with Leah?"

"No, with Brady and Collin."

"And me," said Embry.

She was still confused, so Jacob said, "Everybody in this house, plus Quil, is cousins with everybody else."

"Except me," said Bella proudly. She had figured that out for herself.

Rolling his eyes, Embry twirled one finger in the air in mock celebration. "Woo," he said flatly. "Relatives."

Jacob's cousins dumped a jar of red sauce into a pan on the stove top. Bella cringed as they heated it to a splattering temperature. Jacob cringed, too. "You're getting everything dirty," he complained. And, "Jesus, watch the walls." But they wanted no help. They tipped a box of noodles into the boiling water and stirred it with a long-handled wooden spoon. Then they set the table and put out parmesan cheese and cold cans of Coke. When the pasta was done, however, they looked into the huge pot of boiling water and tried to figure out how to get it to the colander in the sink without burning themselves.

"Too heavy," said one.

"We'll each take a handle," said the other.

"Step aside, peasants," said Embry grandly.

The spaghetti was tolerable, thought Bella. And after dinner, the plan was to watch _The Blues Brothers._ It was the movie Collin and Brady had given Jacob for his birthday, and Jacob said he used to watch it with his mom. She had liked the music. Taking another VHS tape out of his coat pocket and setting it on the table, Brady tried to advocate for watching _Spaceballs _instead_,_ but nobody was having that.

"That's like the world's stupidest movie," said Jacob.

"We'll watch it to make fun of it," amended Brady.

"It's already a movie that makes fun of another movie, plus it's stupid and immature. No."

"Quil would watch it with me."

"Well, he's not here, and if you hadn't noticed, Quil is also stupid and immature."

"Where _is _Quil?" said Embry.

Probably at Seth's house, said Jacob. The two of them had been watching Justin Timberlake videos on the internet for more than a week, and he got a bad feeling they were planning something.

"Geez," said Embry. "I thought _Quil_ was supposed to corrupt _Seth."_

"Well, he's not with Seth," said Bella. She sprinkled parmesan cheese on her spaghetti and described the problem at the Atearas' house. "Quil says he knows how to sabotage relationships, so I'm counting on him."

The boys looked at her with hopeless sympathy, and she wondered if it was because of the nature of the problem, or because Quil was supposed to fix it.

When they were finished eating, the boys turned the TV on and got comfortable on the couch while Bella busied herself in the kitchen trying to make microwaved popcorn. Jacob had bought a new box, and she scratched her knuckles trying to tear open the cardboard. The popcorn bags within were wrapped in a layer of cellophane. That was slippery. When at last she got a bag unwrapped, she stuck it in the microwave and turned it on, but the bag just spun around on the turntable without popping. Give it a minute, said Jacob. She leaned closer, peering through the little window on the microwave's door. Then the popcorn all popped at once—so loud!—and she squeaked, jumping back from the microwave and slipping on some spaghetti sauce the boys had dripped on the floor. She put out a hand to catch herself, but she put it into the dirty dishes stacked beside the sink. Half of them fell down, including the pot lid, which clanged on the floor and swirled around and around.

"This is your girlfriend?" she heard Collin whisper.

"Shut up," said Jacob.

When the popcorn was done she burned her fingers opening the bag and had to run them under cold water from the sink. Then she dumped the popcorn into a bowl, stomped into the living room, and slapped it down on the coffee table. She looked at Collin with her arms folded across her chest, and then she looked at Jacob, who smirked and shoved Collin off the couch. Bella settled into his place and wiggled under Jacob's arm.

Brady sat on the other side of the couch, and Collin rather sulkily sat in Billy's recliner chair. It was upholstered in a cheery tan and blue plaid, quite incongruous with the expression on Collin's face. On the other side of the room, Embry had sought a place as far from the wood stove as possible. He ended up on the floor, leaning against the wall beside the hallway. Jacob tossed him a throw pillow from the couch. After Embry set it behind his head, he squinted at the television, extended his arm, and pointed one finger at it.

"Shala Ka Bam," he said. Nothing happened, so he pointed at Brady. "Sha Zam."

Brady stared at him. So Jacob shoved him off the couch, too, and made him get the VCR working.

_The Blues Brothers_ was a pretty good movie, Bella thought. She liked the car chases, the many explosions, and the vengeance of Carrie Fisher. It wasn't something she would have chosen for herself—it wasn't something she had even heard of—but it was great. Funny. She could see why Charlie liked it; watching the bluesmobile do a backflip was pretty amazing. Jacob was full of trivia—"They were going to tear down that mall anyway"—and she bet Leah would have liked the music, too. But she knew it meant more than that to Jacob. He was sharing memories with her.

Snuggling against his side, she looked up at him. She had the strangest feeling, as if they had done this before. Watched movies together, just like this. Or _Iron Chef._ Or football games. Anything.

"How long?" she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"How long did we sit like this?"

He smoothed his hand over her hair. "Months," he whispered. "You were my pet ice cube. And when you warmed up, you would eat something, and then Charlie would come and take you home."

Tears prickled her eyes.

"You were pretty messed up."

She turned her face into his chest to hide the drop that rolled down her cheek. "Thank you," she whispered, brushing her hand over his sweater. He smelled so good. She sighed and nuzzled him, and he did the same, sliding her hair away from her neck and placing his nose there. She wormed her other arm behind his back to wrap both around him and squeeze, and he responded by lifting her onto his lap and burying his face in her hair again. With his left arm around her waist, he pulled her closer, and with his right hand he slipped off her shoes and ran his thumb over her socks, rubbing the arches of her feet.

"You have such tiny toes," he whispered. "Like little jelly beans. I want to eat them."

_What?! _

Blushing furiously, she scrambled off his lap and bent her forehead to her knees.

"Yes, you said that out loud," said Embry. "Dumbass."

Jacob put his hands over his face and groaned.

"So close, Jake," said Embry. "And yet, so far."

"So she's _not_ your girlfriend?" said Collin.

There was a knock at the door then, and Bella jumped up to answer it. It gave her a moment to compose herself. She fanned her red face with her hands, took a deep breath, and yanked open the door.

"Help me," said Quil.

"What are you doing here?" she cried.

"I couldn't stand it." Quil was panting, as if he had run all the way across town. He pushed past her into the house and tossed his coat on a chair. Then he shoved his hands through his curls until his hair was standing up all over his head. His cheeks were pink, but the rest of his face looked pale. "It was disgusting in there. I just couldn't stand it."

"But what's going to happen now, Quil?" Bella's voice rose about an octave. "What now?" she screeched, pacing left and right. Maybe if Jacob hadn't riled her up she could have responded better, but as it was, she put her hands on Quil's shoulders and shoved him, hard. He staggered backward. "Oh, God," she cried, "I don't want to think about what's happening _now!_"

"Don't panic," said Quil. "My grandpa is still there. He's watching TV. Nothing will happen."

"But I thought he was nearly blind! He uses a cane!"

"He uses it to beat people. Mostly me."

"Shut the door," hollered Collin. "You're letting all the cold air in."

"_You_ shut it!" snapped Bella. "You can just _shut the front door!"_

The boys came out of the living room to stare at Bella and Quil.

"This is very bad!" said Bella.

"Don't panic. My grandpa is there."

Brady hurried to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. "If you're panicking, it helps to splash a little water on your face."

Bella took the glass and threw the water at Quil.

"Gah!" he spluttered. "And what about you? I don't see you doing anything to prevent this!"

"I don't live in your house! You had access to destroy everything! Chicken: on the floor! Conversation: 'Hey, did you smell that thing that washed up on the beach yesterday?' Bathroom: 'Sorry, Mom, I don't remember how many burritos I ate, and now the toilet is all clogged!' _Think_, Quil! So many ways for you to have ruined this!"

Quil strode into the kitchen and filled another glass at the sink. "I freaked out! Sorry!" He took a sip of water but choked on it, so he threw the rest in Bella's face. "Your turn. _You _go right ahead and walk in my house and do something."

"Argh!" She wiped her hands over her face and lunged for Quil. Jacob caught her around the waist.

"Whoa there, cowgirl." He turned her over his shoulder. "Nothing is going to happen. Quil's grandpa is in there, and he is like the opposite of romance. He farts all day long. Sorry to say it, Quil."

"It's okay. It's totally true."

Hanging over Jacob's shoulder and halfway down his back, Bella gained a fresh perspective on the problem. Everybody looked upside down and concerned or confused, except for Embry, who had leaned sideways and tipped his head so that he was almost right side up with her. He winked.

"Can I put you down now?" said Jacob. "Or are you going to claw my cousin's eyes out?"

"Well... I guess I'll claw him later."

"Good enough."

They returned to the living room. Collin hit "play" on the VCR and chose a seat on the other side of the room from Bella, and Embry found two dishtowels in a drawer, stood behind the couch, and rubbed them over Quil's and Bella's heads.

"Unnecessary roughness," complained Quil.

"Oh, it's necessary."

The Blues Brothers' music and car chases resumed. Currently, they were zooming toward Chicago with five thousand dollars in a briefcase, followed by dozens of police cars. Most of them overturned in a ditch as the bluesmobile drove across a highway median and down a hill.

Sitting stiffly beside Quil, Bella tried to articulate exactly _why_ this whole thing was so bad. Was it because Charlie was having dinner with Joy? Or because Charlie was having dinner with a woman? Maybe a little of both, but probably more of the latter. And what was so bad about Charlie having a date? _Why? _She couldn't put it into words. It just seemed like a very bad idea. Her chest began to feel tight, and she wiggled beneath Jacob's arm again, jelly beans be damned. Quil stared at the screen with glassy eyes. After a while he lay against the arm of the couch, curled into a ball and moaning softly.

"Shut up, Quil," said Jacob. "You're making it hard to hear the movie.

The Blues Brothers sped through the streets of Chicago, leaving piles of cars in their wake. Angry police officers got out of the wrecked cars and fired their weapons after the bluesmobile.

What if Charlie started making a habit of this, she wondered. What if he invited Mrs. Ateara to dinner at the Swan house? Would he expect his daughter to cook something for them? She would go on strike. Or she would cook something so terrible that Joy would never want to come again. But then Joy and Charlie would go to a restaurant, or to Joy's house, where they might be unsupervised. Bella's mind rushed in several directions, looking for a solution, and she just couldn't find one.

It had gotten dark outside. And colder. It was the sort of night that made you want to cuddle up with a book... or another person.

When _The Blues Brothers_ was over, Brady put a hand on Quil's shoulder and shook him gently. "Want to watch _Spaceballs_?"

It made Quil sit up a little. Then there was another knock at the door. Or rather, a tapping sound. And a few solid thwacks on the wood.

"Open up!" croaked a voice outside.

Jacob opened the door.

"Grandpa?" said Quil. "But—"

"Eh, our TV's on the fritz." He tottered into the living room and poked his cane at Brady, sitting on the couch, and when Brady looked confused, Mr. Ateara whacked him across the shins until he gave up his seat.

Bella thought his cane looked more like a staff. It was a heavy, solid piece of wood, maybe from a cedar tree, with knots on it and swirls of the tree's growth lines. The handle had been worn smooth from many years of use, and it was almost as tall as the man's shoulder. Mr. Ateara wore moccasin-like leather slippers, lined with sheep's wool, tweed slacks that fit loosely on his thin frame, a brown cable-knit sweater, and an old leather bomber jacket. His gray hair hung to his shoulders. A patch on the sleeve of his jacket identified him as a Korean War veteran.

"Put the game on, boy," he said, jabbing his cane at Brady. "The Huskies are down twelve points to the Ducks." Here he muttered something profane about the University of Oregon.

"But what about Mom?" said Quil. "She's in there with Charlie Swan. What are they going to be doing _now?_"

"Well, they said they were going to watch TV."

Quil stared at his grandfather. Then he put on his coat and declared that he was going home.

"Me, too," said Bella.

She put on her coat as well. Her red one was at home, damp, and she'd had to wear Charlie's old brown fleece. It wasn't nearly warm enough. In the pocket she found the silvery, furry hat Embry had given her, so she put that on, too, shivering as she crossed the driveway to her truck. It was dark now, but the yellow glow of Jacob's porch lamp was enough to help her find the right key on her key ring.

"Where are you going?" said Quil. "I thought you were coming home with me."

"No, I'm going _home_. My house. And I'm going to crawl in bed and never get out again."

"Well, thanks a lot. I don't want to go in there alone."

"You fucked up, Quil. Go fix it."

Embry burst out laughing. She turned to see all the boys and Mr. Ateara watching from the porch. He congratulated her on her swearing, and Jacob looked appalled. Bella clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Fine," said Quil. "Chicken shit."

She yanked open the door of her truck, hopped inside, and turned the key. The engine wheezed and wheezed, but it wouldn't start. She pumped the gas and tried again. Nothing.

"Fu—" she said. "Er, fudge."

_Wheeze, wheeze,_ went the truck.

"Jacob?"

He came down from the porch and lifted the hood. The other boys leaned over the engine, too. Embry got the flashlight from the garage, and even Mr. Ateara came down from the porch to look.

"Try again, Bella," said Jacob.

No luck.

Well, wasn't this the perfect ending to a horrible day? First it was Edward's crappy recycled love song, then her father and that horrible woman holed up at the Atearas' house, and now this. Stars were coming out overhead, twinkling merrily as if mocking her, and she could already feel her toes going cold. Could Jacob fix this? And if not, how much was this going to cost? She'd have to call a tow truck to haul this rusty heap up to Dowling's, and then she'd have to face that racist jerk and _pay him_ for his time.

"Bella, come on out here," said Embry.

Most reluctantly, she slid down from the cab and looked at the engine with the boys.

"Brady, go turn the key," he said, and as the engine wheezed again, Embry bent an ear over it and turned to Jacob. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?" said Collin.

"That sound in the fuel line. You hear it, Jake?"

"Yeah."

"Shit."

"What sound?" said Collin.

"Is it dead?" asked Bella.

Brady turned the key again, and Jacob looked at Embry in amazement. "I can't believe you can hear that."

"I wish you _couldn't_ hear it."

Mr. Ateara looked between Jake and his brother.

"Bella," said Jacob, and she could tell he was trying not to laugh, "you're out of gas."

She leaned on his shoulder and groaned. Of course. She had been back and forth from La Push at least three times in the past week, and back and forth from Port Angeles twice. She walked around the side of the truck, twisted open the fuel cap, and looked into that dark hole as if she could will the gas into being. _Crap, crap, crap. _There was one gas pump in La Push, at the general store, but it was almost nine o'clock and everything was closed.

"Sucks to be you," said Quil.

She kicked the tire, and then she fell to the ground in pain because it was the same toe she'd spent ten minutes kicking against the wall in her bedroom earlier this evening.

And that was how she ended up trapped in a car with Charlie and Mrs. Ateara.

"Nice evening, isn't it?" said Charlie.

They rolled slowly east along the La Push Road toward Forks. Stars shone over the pine tops.

"So pretty," said Joy, looking up at them.

In the backseat of the cruiser, Bella sat with her arms folded over her chest.

"I really enjoyed dinner tonight," said Charlie. "How do you keep the chicken so tender?"

"You have to sear it first. Sear it in a hot pan with a little olive oil, and then you can roast it in a covered dish for about thirty minutes."

Bella had never thought of that. She'd have to try that sometime.

"Bella," said Joy, "maybe you could try that sometime."

Never mind. She would never try that.

In the back of the garage at home, there was a fuel canister. Charlie planned to fill it for her at the service station in Forks. Bella had called him from Jacob's house, describing her problem, and this was how he said he could help. In the background, she heard Joy saying that she would ride along with Charlie. "Just you and me," Bella could hear. _Fat chance, _she thought. She stood in Jacob's driveway, her jaw clenched, until her father arrived, and then she declared that she would go, too. In a way, running out of gas was a good thing. She figured Charlie and Joy had been alone for a mere fifteen minutes after Mr. Ateara left the house.

The road to Forks seemed interminable. She looked out the window at the dark trees. The grille across the top of the front seat made her feel caged in. But at least she had company. Staring out the opposite window, Quil sat with a pained expression on his face. She had pinched his upper arm pretty hard and shoved him toward the cruiser when Charlie showed up. And in between Bella and Quil rode Mr. Ateara, his staff lying across their laps. He had been shoved in there, too, by his grandson, and now he was humming "The Yellow Rose of Texas" in his raspy voice. Bella had no idea why.

When they got home, Charlie parked the car in the driveway and left the motor running while he went into the garage in search of the fuel canister. "I'll help you," said Joy. She disappeared into the dark building. Bella and Quil exchanged agonized looks. "We'll help, too," they said. It was pitch black in there and Bella could hear but not see her father behind the stacked up boxes, the snow shovel, the lawn mower, and all kinds of other things that she was sure were utterly useless and ought to be dragged to the street on the next garbage pick up day. She bumbled around in the dark, banging her ankles against garden tools. Quil wasn't faring any better. In the back of the building, they heard Joy whisper, "Ooh, it's so hard to see in here. Just like old times." Charlie snickered, and Bella's stomach did a sickening flip.

In the cruiser again, she held the fuel canister on her lap while Charlie and Joy buckled up in the front seat. Quil's grandfather patted her knee and Quil's knee. "You kids are hilarious."

Their time at the gas station was no less disgusting. After filling the fuel canister, Charlie set it in the trunk and walked into the convenience store with Joy. Bella and Quil played rock, paper, scissors, and Bella lost. She went into the store after them, just in time to witness Charlie buying Mrs. Ateara a blue raspberry slushie, which she declared was also just like old times. Charlie took a sip from her straw.

On the way back to La Push, Joy drank her slushie quickly and then spent at least five miles slurping at the juice in the bottom of her cup. Bella was pretty sure that things couldn't get much worse. Then Mrs. Ateara put down the cup and asked Charlie if he remembered the campfire they'd had in his parents' backyard, and Charlie said he'd never forget that, and Bella was pretty sure that things couldn't get much worse. Then Mrs. Ateara put her hand on Charlie's leg and Quil said, in a strangled voice, "Hey, did you smell that thing that washed up on the beach yesterday?"

He was ignored. Then Bella heard a small, unmentionable sound next to her and the car filled with an unpleasant odor. Discreetly, Charlie rolled down his window a little bit, and he and Joy said nothing more until they reached La Push. Old Quil winked at his grandson.

Bella held her breath so long she thought she might faint. When the car stopped in Jacob's driveway, she slithered out and lay on the ground. It didn't even feel cold. She looked up at the stars, and they all seemed to be swirling like shiny goldfish in the bowl of the sky. Faintly at first, coming through the wooziness in her head—then, as she revived, with sharp clarity—she heard the sounds of an argument. Raised voices. The crunch and slide of footsteps in the gravel. She sat up. Paul Lahote, throwing the tiny stones with stinging force, had Jacob cornered between her truck and the garage.

"That fucking hurts!" said Jacob, trying to bat away the gravel with his hands. "What's wrong with you?"

Embry stood between Paul and his brother.

"We need him," Paul said. He pinged Jacob in the ear with another stone.

Bella stood up. "Jacob?"

Turning, Paul stared at her. His face darkened. "A hat?" he said to Embry. "You've got to me kidding me."

"Think of it as a territory mark, asshole. Ours."

"Ours? Great idea." Quick as a flash, he snapped up Bella in his arms and backed toward the woods. "Come and get it, Jake."

Jacob made a strange sound. It almost sounded like a growl. Bella was suddenly terrified; she kicked at Paul, but he wouldn't let go. Embry, panicked, called on the rest of the boys to hold Jacob, and they did it without question, Brady, Collin, and Quil pinning him against the side of the garage.

"Any other girl, Jake." Paul tossed her over his shoulder. "Anybody else. But you've got to pick Bride of Frankenstein."

"Let me go!" cried Bella. Paul was wearing jeans but no shoes or shirt; his skin was burning hot and his arms felt like iron. Her hat fell off, and the cold air on her scalp made her skin tingle, her senses electrified with alarm. She smelled the heat and musk of Paul's skin, felt the shift of muscles in his back, and she looked into the blackness of the trees. Miles and miles of dark, cold, pathless forest. "No!" she cried. "No! No! No! Jacob, help me!"

Paul laughed, a high and wild sound.

"Boys," said Mr. Ateara sternly. He climbed out of the cruiser holding his staff. No one looked at him except for Embry, whose eyes were swimming with fright and tears. Jacob shook Collin off his arm.

"No, Jake, please, no," said Embry.

When he shook off Brady as well, Embry slid over the hood of Bella's truck and swiped the staff from Mr. Ateara. He lunged for Paul, swinging the staff. It connected with Paul's right hip with a solid, hard thump, and Paul crumpled to the ground. Bella scrambled away from him as he rolled onto his side, a dark stain spreading over the side of his jeans.

Running to Jacob, Bella felt herself trembling all over. She pressed her face to his chest. His heart was beating so hard and she realized he was trembling, too.

"You scrawny runt," Paul gasped. "When this heals, I'm on your throat."

"Bring it on," said Embry. "I'll rip another hole in your gut."

Paul got up and limped into the woods.

Bella breathed. She breathed and breathed the scent of Jacob until she felt herself calming. His warmth. The smell of his hair and skin. He did the same, snuffling his nose in her hair and along her neck until he stopped shaking.

"You two are freaks," said Quil, and the tension broke. "How is this not kissing?"

"So she _is _your girlfriend?" said Collin.

Bella blushed, and Jacob mumbled, "We don't have a label."

"There is no word for what you are," said Quil. "Except maybe idiots."

Things seemed okay after that. Brady and Collin got their coats and said goodbye. "Take your stupid _Spaceballs_ tape with you," Jacob called after them. He picked up Bella's hat, dusted it off, and put it back on her head. "Are we idiots?" he whispered.

"Probably," she whispered back.

"Okay then. Smell you later."

That only made her blush more. She said goodbye and got the fuel canister out of the trunk of the cruiser. Quil helped her fill up the truck.

The night was quiet again. Jacob walked slowly over the driveway, toeing the small heaps of gravel from their skids back into place and tapping it smooth. Down the street, she could see headlights approaching; she figured it was Harry's Suburban and Billy was coming home. Embry frowned. He returned Mr. Ateara's staff.

"Sorry," he said.

The old man raised a hand to Embry's cheek. "Son, you're a good boy. Your heart is full of love, and it makes you strong. But you're as blind as I am, honey, and that makes you a fool."

He flushed. "You're not blind," he said quietly. The Suburban rolled into the driveway then, and Embry jogged away down the dark street.

Harry climbed down from the cab. He helped Billy into his wheelchair and the two of them called a greeting to Joy and Charlie. Joy said hello, but Charlie was silent. He was leaning against the cruiser with his arms folded over his chest. Bella wondered how long he'd been standing like that. His eyes followed Embry into the night. He looked at Bella, at Jacob, at the hat, and at the forest. Then he looked at Billy, and he didn't say a word.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note.<strong> Thank you for reading. I hope it seems like Jake and Bells are growing closer._

_Updated roll call: Hooray for Twilight fans near and far! Folks who raised a hand are from France (2), Minnesota (3), Ohio (2), Michigan (1) in the Upper Peninsula, one of my favorite places!, New Jersey (3), California (1), Sweden (1), Texas (3) including two from San Antonio, Connecticut (1), South Africa (1), Oregon (1), Hawaii (1), Oklahoma (1), North Carolina (1), Australia (1), Indonesia (1), Dubai (1), and Aruba (1). Wow! **Where are you from? I'll add you to the awesomeness.**_

_Questions for you. Your feedback helps me write._

**1. Why is Charlie silent at the end?**

**2. Is Embry a fool?**

3. I hope this chapter made you smile. Let me know which parts seemed funny? (Honestly, it makes my day to know that this stuff amuses you. I'm simple that way. And it makes all the work worth it!)

Please send me a note. The next day is Valentine's Day! I think you'll like it. Previews to reviewers... Smell you later.


	29. Chapter 29 Valentine's Day

_Author's Note: Thanks to guest reviewers Blue Moon (800:-) and Amanda Morais from Brazil!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-nine<strong>

**"****Valentine's Day"**

If there was anything worse than Friday the Thirteenth, it had to be Valentine's Day. Bella stood in the candy aisle of the Chinook Pharmacy, wondering what to do about Jacob.

Last night had been weird. Paul scared her. Something about him wasn't right. It was more than the violent harassment, the theft of her windowsill, and his habit of running half-naked through winter nights. Sure, those things were all strange and threatening, but there was something _more._ And she didn't know what it was. All she knew was that she hoped to never see him again.

Jacob was another weird problem from last night. She was cool with the unlabeled cuddles. A couple weeks ago, she would have run screaming from that, but maybe she really was like Jake's pet ice cube. Ever so stiffly, she could let him run his hands over her, and as she thawed she could like it, and she could even hug him back. It felt safe. Not safe in the sense that he wouldn't hurt her feelings by going around hugging some other girls—she knew he wouldn't—but safe in the sense that somehow, that nothing bad would happen to her when she was with him.

But then there was that thing he said about her toes.

_That _was the weirdness she was trying to deal with now.

It was Valentine's Day, damn it, and she had to do something about Jacob. Last night, he had said he'd come see her in the morning. Sure, she said, just like it was any other day. She wished she'd remembered the holiday and made up an excuse. Now what?

Skipping it was out of the question. That would be insensitive, maybe just plain mean. But there really were no greeting cards appropriate for their kind of relationship. She had balefully regarded the card selection in another aisle. Images of hearts and flowers, people holding hands. Lacy paper. Cartoon drawings of champagne glasses clinking together, and sentiments like, "I love the smile that lights your face. I love the warmth of your embrace," and "To my wonderful wife, you came into my life." The bad poetry made her want to barf. Worse, there were other cards embossed with red foil letters that said things like, "Hey, there, sexy cakes," and this made her want to barf more. What the heck was a sexy cake? Would Charlie give a card like this to Mrs. Ateara? _ Blurgh. _ And in between these sappy romantic cards and the nauseating sexy cards, there was _nothing_ appropriate for Jacob.

_Happy Valentine's Day to the guy whom I know I torture, but who is too stupid to stay away from me. _

_Happy Valentine's Day to the guy who holds the dustpan into which I keep refusing to sweep the pieces of my shattered heart._

_Happy Valentine's Day to the guy who better not have hung up a laminated Smurfette poster in his shower._

_Happy Valentine's Day to the guy who rides me around on the hot rumble of a Harley between my—_

Oh, hell no.

Cards sucked. That was why she was now in the candy aisle. Unfortunately, candy sucked, too. Was there anything here not in a heart-shaped box? She considered a little package of jelly beans, thinking that it might send a message like, _Eat these instead of my toes, and never mention those thoughts again._ Unfortunately, it might also send a message like, _I remember what you said. I'm still thinking about it. _Or worse, _Practice on these because I want you to be really, really good at eating jelly beans._

Her face felt hot. She swiped a fifty-cent box of conversation hearts from the shelf and plunked down a couple of quarters at the cash register.

At home, she tidied the living room, straightening the blue rug that belonged near the fireplace and fluffing the pillows on the green couch. She even lined up the pictures on the mantle and smoothed the sleeve covers on the arms of Charlie's recliner, which was upholstered in brown corduroy. Charlie was just finishing a late breakfast and getting ready to go to work.

"Jacob coming over?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll be home around three o'clock. If it's any earlier I'll call so I won't surprise you."

"Why would you surprise me? Nothing is going to happen."

Charlie took a sip of his coffee. It seemed he was trying to hide a smile behind his mug.

"Nothing is happening!" Bella screeched.

Charlie took another sip of coffee. "You know, I'm never going to worry about you because you chaperone yourself."

Bella looked around for something to throw. The nearest thing was the morning paper, but it just came apart when she hurled it toward the kitchen, its large pages fluttering everywhere.

Charlie raised an eyebrow at her, and she turned and stomped up the stairs. "Goodbye," he called as he opened the front door. "Have as nice a time as you can manage to let yourself have."

Ugh. Her father was horrible.

She straightened up her bedroom, too. Not that there was any particular reason for that. In the bathroom, she brushed her hair till it shined, and then she brushed her teeth two times. For no particular reason, of course.

She was wearing clean jeans and her new, pink, close-fitting sweater. Since she had trashed all of Alice's dresses, this was the most beautiful outfit she owned. She had put it on thoughtlessly, and now she wondered if she ought to wear something else. Maybe one of her gigantic, boxy, plaid flannel things. She would definitely not look like a sexy cake in that kind of shirt. Not even like a sexy muffin, or a sexy bagel, or a sexy burnt piece of toast. But then Jacob might think she was pretending not to care about the holiday, which would imply that she _did_ care. So she did not change her outfit, and in her room she lay on her bed, writing in her journal to keep herself from fidgeting until he arrived.

_February 14, 2006. It's 10:00 a.m. and this day is sucking already. Jacob is coming and I should have told him no. He wants to eat my feet. Add that to The Sock problem and he has a thing for my feet, I think, which is totally weird. They are covered with scars anyway. _

_My mom has been bugging me with emails. I don't know what to say to her._

_Charlie very narrowly escaped being alone with Mrs. Ateara last night. Must thank Quil for his help._

_Jacob is coming over soon and I should have told him no. Oh, wait, I already said that._

She tried playing her guitar to relax, and after a while she got an idea for a song. She set it to the tune of "Mr. Sandman" and returned to her journal to write the lyrics.

* * *

><p>It's just Jacob. Why should I care?<p>

It's not like he will see my underwear.

Oh, never mind, that already happened.

Way more embarrassing than I imagined.

* * *

><p>It's just Jacob. Not a big deal.<p>

I'll keep my shoes on; he won't cop a feel.

We share so many not-quite-platonic

cuddles and hugs that it's become ironic.

* * *

><p>It's just Jacob. I see him every day.<p>

He won't show up with some obnoxious bouquet.

He understands the way that I feel.

It's not like I have anything to conceal.

* * *

><p>It's just Jacob. Just me and him.<p>

My dad is gone. The lights are dim.

But nothing special will occur

because Valentine's Day is not something that I'm paying any attention to.

* * *

><p><em>Hmm….. <em> That last part didn't rhyme right.

_Why am I so nervous? _

The doorbell rang. She smoothed her hands over her hair and descended the steps with dolorous dignity.

On the porch, bending his tall frame to peer through the little window in the door, stood a red-faced boy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Hi," mumbled Jacob when she opened the door. "I forgot it was Valentine's Day when I said I'd come over."

"It's okay. I forgot, too."

In the kitchen she offered him a glass of water and they sat at the table.

"You look nice," said Jacob. "Not any nicer than usual, though. I mean, you usually look nice, so this is not _un-_usual."

"Thanks, I guess. I considered looking much worse."

There were a few dirty dishes from breakfast beside the sink. Bella thought about getting up to wash them, but she also thought it might be rude.

A bird flew past the window.

Jacob had combed his long, shining hair carefully and parted it down the middle, tucking the sides behind his ears. He wore his black "Shut Up, Quil" T-shirt. It seemed smaller than before. Or his biceps were bigger. Must be all that wood chopping for the birthday party, she thought.

"You look nice, too," she said. "Sort of. Well, definitely. I mean, you look like you usually do. Which is nice."

Jacob sniffed his armpit. "Mostly I look nice. I smell like yesterday's spaghetti."

Both of them flushed and looked at the floor. Charlie had a clock in the kitchen. She had never before noticed how loudly it ticked.

"Uh, where's the bike?"

"Library. Didn't want to piss off your dad."

"Mmm."

Bella got herself a glass of water, too, and sat down again, watching the way the light refracted through the glass. Sunlight passing through it made a little circle on the table.

"I know this must suck for you," said Jacob. "Festival of love. People making promises and eating red velvet cake and stuff like that. But I would just like to say that for me, this is the best Valentine's Day ever. I'm with a beautiful girl who does not hate my guts, who isn't my cousin, like most of La Push, and who actually let me in the house. For me, this is a win."

Her nervousness left her in a laugh.

"So I got you this cheap-ass box of conversation hearts to show how very little I care." He tossed his package on the table.

"Me, too," she smiled. "I don't even like you one dollar's worth."

Things were easier after that. They traded boxes and shook out the hearts. Most of the sayings were cheesy and laughable, but a few were worth passing across the table. "U R CUTE" and "U + ME." One said, "TXT ME," and Bella lifted the receiver from her father's landline, stretched the cord across the kitchen, and smashed the heart to powder with it. "Analog me, bitch."

"Yow. Too much Leah for you."

Bella gave her box another shake and two hearts tumbled out. A green one said, "BEST FRNZ." A red one said, "MAY-B L8-R." She sat staring at them long enough for her to realize that she was staring at them, and that Jacob was staring at _her. _

Was she really considering this?

Could it be possible to—

Jacob crushed the red heart with the bottom of his water glass. "No drama. We're good."

She passed him the green heart.

Jacob said he was really hungry then, and could they make lunch?

"It's ten thirty in the morning."

"Brunch? I'm starving."

No brunch, she decided. Lasagna. Bella hadn't made it in almost a year. It took a lot of effort and time, and she had to be in a good mood, too, or she'd make mistakes that ruined it, like over-boiling the pasta or burning the meat. But today seemed like a great day for it. Jacob was game to help. She asked him to brown the ground beef while she set a pot of water to boil and assembled the other ingredients.

It was nice to cook with him. He listened to her talk about oregano, basil, and garlic, the holy trinity of Italian seasoning, and she was pretty sure he wasn't just pretending to be interested. As he stirred the beef, she added onions, tomato paste, and her seasonings, and then she placed her noodles in the boiling water.

The bubbling tomato sauce was bound to stain her new sweater. She was glad she realized this before it happened. Looking through her father's kitchen drawers yielded no aprons but more than one of Mrs. Ateara's hot pink dishtowels. Why did everything have to look like lipstick with that woman?

"Oh, Joy," Jacob said flatly, holding one of the towels.

"This is really bad, Jake. What are we going to do?"

"Nothing. Charlie's a grown-ass man. And Joy is great, really, in small doses. You might like her."

She could not be persuaded. Upstairs, she buttoned one of her old flannel shirts up to her chin, over the pink sweater, and when she came down again, Jacob was leaning sideways to check on the blue flames of the gas burning under his pan.

"Hair, Jake!" she cried.

He stepped back just in time. "Good save."

Swathed in a protective layer of boxy, blue plaid wool, Bella layered the lasagna in a baking dish and set it in a 350 degree oven. She and Jacob washed up while it baked. And after that, as she set the table, she looked at their candy hearts. She felt a little funny about the way he had smashed that red one so quickly. This shouldn't have bothered her, but it did. _Why?_

She didn't have much time to contemplate that because the doorbell rang then.

"Angela?" said Bella when she opened the door.

"Hi," said her friend. She was dressed in an old green sweatshirt that said, "Forks High" and a pair of raggedy sweatpants. Her long brown hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun that looked like nothing more than a ponytail pulled one and a half times through an elastic band. "I hate Valentine's Day. Figured you must be miserable, too. Can I come in?"

"Of course."

Bella remembered Angela's eagerness to meet Jacob. As she introduced them in the kitchen, she was cringing with fear that Angela would say something embarrassing. She had to content herself with the fact that Angela's "Oooooh! Nice to meet you!" could have been much worse.

The three of them made a salad. In the back of the freezer, Bella found a package of frost-bitten garlic bread. Charlie must have bought it. Last year. It was not up to her standards, but she opened the package anyway and set it on a cookie sheet to toast in the oven. Bella had put three plates on the table when the doorbell rang.

"Mike?"

"Hi," he said. There were dark circles under his eyes. Under his brown parka, he wore a white polo shirt with "Newton's Outfitters" embroidered on the breast pocket in green thread. "My mom scheduled me to work tonight because she says I'll have nothing better to do. Rub it in, Mom. God, I'm so miserable. I figured you'd be all sad here, too, so I thought I'd come cheer you up. Or maybe you can cheer me up."

"Come on in. We're having a party."

Mike kicked off his shoes on the doormat and joined everybody in the kitchen. The lasagna was nearly done and smelling delicious. Bella put another plate on the table as Mike shook hands with Jacob.

"So you two are a thing?" he said, looking from Jake to Bella.

"Not really," she said.

"Sort of," said Jacob.

"Well, we're _something," _amended Bella.

"They're totally a thing," said Angela. "And I'm alone."

"We're _friends_," said Bella. "And you're not alone. You, me, and Mike hate this day."

"I'm fine," said Jacob. "I got lasagna."

Angela lay her head on the table as Mike filled a couple glasses of water. He passed her one, but she didn't sit up to drink it. Bella was about to take the lasagna out of the oven when she heard the sound of car tires crunching over the gravel beside her mailbox. Looking out the window, she saw a hot pink Ford Fiesta.

"Oh, no."

Mrs. Ateara was in the passenger seat. She waved to Bella. The driver's door opened, and out stepped Quil with a huge grin on his face. Mrs. Ateara climbed out and kissed him. He squirmed as she ruffled his curls. Then, to Bella's relief, she drove away.

Quil bounded up the steps and entered the house without knocking.

"I thought you'd be here," he said to Jacob. "I just got my license. Woot! Woot!"

Bella introduced Angela and Mike and set a fifth plate on the table. The lasagna looked perfect when she pulled it from the oven. The tomato sauce was bubbling and the ricotta and parmesan cheese she'd sprinkled on top had browned nicely. The others were impressed. It needed to cool a little before they could eat it, though, so she decided to make chocolate cupcakes for dessert. Quil volunteered to stir the batter. She regretted taking him up on his offer when she discovered he'd eaten nearly a quarter of it by the time she got her cupcake tins ready.

"You're such a pig," she said.

"It's food. I'm holding it. What did you expect?"

She declared the batter forfeit, and Mike, Angela, and Jacob got spoons and dug in while she mixed a new batch. "You're all going to get stomach aches," she said. "There's raw egg in there."

"Don't care," said Angela. "I'll get fat and lots of pimples, too. Doesn't matter."

"My stomach is a cast iron pot," said Quil. "Nothing makes me sick."

"You make _me_ sick," said Jacob.

Bella took the garlic bread from the oven and sliced it. She felt too warm in her sweater and flannel shirt, but the risk of stains made her keep the flannel on. In another bowl, she mixed a second batter for black bottom cupcakes: a package of cream cheese, a cup of sugar, and one egg. Then she stirred in a pile of chocolate chips. She spooned her chocolate batter into the cupcake tins and added a dollop of the cream cheese mixture to each one. It would sink slightly while baking and give her cupcakes a cheese cake-like surprise in the middle.

"Genius," said Angela.

Bella mixed a batch of chocolate frosting, too. Quil gave her a naughty look and a smirk.

"You better shut up," she said. "Or you can't have any."

The crunch of tires on gravel made her look outside again. An unfamiliar, old blue Toyota Tercel stopped near the mailbox. To her surprise, it was Embry. He yawned, stretching his arms over his head, and climbed the porch steps.

Like Quil, he had guessed that Jacob would be here. Bella introduced her friends and set a sixth plate on the table.

As they all sat down to lunch, the three Quileutes sat in a row on one side, making Bella feel self-conscious about her petite size. The boys suddenly seemed enormous. All elbows and long legs. The forks looked tiny in their hands. They wedged their tall frames into the space between the table and the wall and held their arms close to their sides so as not to jostle one another. Seeing them side by side made Bella think about their similarities: all very tall, with dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. Jacob's and Embry's straight noses. Quil's soft curls, so girlishly different. She knew he'd cuss her out for calling him girlish, so she kept that to herself. They all had strong jaws and high cheekbones. Broad shoulders. And sharp white teeth that flashed when they smiled. As if they could feel the others staring at them, they all blushed at once.

"You're like gorgeous and gorgeous-er!" Angela blurted, and then she turned pink as well.

"It's me," explained Quil. "These other guys look good when they're near me."

"Think about that for a minute, Quil," said Jacob. "I think you just called yourself the ugly one."

Embry just looked at his plate, and when Bella served him a piece of lasagna, his eyes welled with tears.

"Emb?" said Jacob.

"It's nothing." He smudged his hands over his cheeks. "I'm just really hungry. And tired."

"No, it's something else. Last night—"

"It's nothing. Let's eat."

Jacob didn't look convinced. He exchanged worried glances with Bella. Mike and Angela seemed uncomfortable, like they weren't sure what to say, but Embry made a heroic effort to have a normal conversation as they ate. He asked about Bella's job, and this got Mike talking about the Outfitters, and then Quil joined in with his hopes of getting a job in Forks, too, maybe at the grocery store.

"Or at my store," said Mike. "You like camping, hiking, stuff like that?"

"Sure."

_Oh, Lord._ Bella didn't want to find out what having Quil for a co-worker would be like. But she remembered to thank him for his interference last night.

It had been a close call, they agreed. The others were interested in their story of the car ride from hell, saved only by the world's gassiest grandpa. "He's still a warrior," said Quil, which made Embry look like he wanted to thunk his forehead on the table. "And an expert in chemical warfare," finished Quil.

Bella served the salad and garlic bread, too, in between circulating tins of cupcakes in and out of the oven. She had four dozen when all were baked, but they, too, would need to cool before being eaten. Plus she still needed to frost them.

Mike described the responsibilities of a job at Newton's, and Quil was genuinely interested. As they talked about that, Bella looked at Jacob. He still seemed worried, watching his brother shovel in the lasagna as discreetly as possible. Embry cared about table manners, she could tell, but he was also starving. Jacob seemed distressed by this. Bella wanted to put her hand over Jacob's, but she thought it might draw attention to their ambiguous relationship, and she didn't want to reignite the others' curiosity. Under the table, almost against her better judgment, she slipped her shoes off—so she wouldn't bruise him with the sole of her shoe, of course—and bumped Jake's shin with her toe. She had a little smile ready for him, but he didn't look her way. She bumped him again.

Quil and Mike kept talking about Newton's, and Angela joined in, too, saying that it was really a great store, and she asked if Mike's parents were nice to work for. "Ugh," said Mike, "don't get me started." He had to admit that his mother was kind of difficult. Bossy. Always in his business. "I hear you," said Quil. And while they talked about that, too, Bella nudged Jacob again.

He didn't look up. He had one eye on his plate and one eye on his brother. He seemed to have retreated into himself. Bella slipped off her socks, thinking he'd notice that. She found his ankle and stroked her toe over it, but he made no response.

Was she crossing some kind of line, she wondered. Did this count as footsie? Surely footsie was only when you were flirting with someone. This, she figured, was more like concerned-sie. Cheer up-sie. His ankle was warm and he wasn't wearing socks; she could feel the tiny, soft hairs on his legs, and it gave her a strange thrill. Maybe she should stop. But his poker face was just _so _good.

Feeling a little wild, she scooted her chair closer to the table so she could reach farther. She couldn't believe she was doing this. She found his shin bone and stroked her foot over it. This was _not_ what friends did, not exactly, but if he was going to snuffle his nose over her hair and neck and not label that, then what the hell, she could put her toe on his shin. She could feel the warmth of his leg through his jeans.

Jacob speared a cherry tomato from his salad and chewed on it thoughtfully.

Reaching still farther, Bella found his calf muscle. She stroked her toe over that, too, and she was ready for the time when he'd look at her, ready with a reassuring smile and a nod toward Embry. Then she'd stop, because _of course_ that was her only motivation in doing this. In the meantime, she might as well press the sole of her foot against him.

Quil turned from Mike then and picked up an imaginary telephone.

"Hell-Oh!" he sang. "Quil's leg speaking. What? Oh, he's not here right now, Bella. But I'll tell Jake you called."

Bella turned bright scarlet and Embry choked on a piece of garlic bread.

Jacob's eyes shot between her and Quil for a moment, and then he shoved Quil hard enough to make his chair slide backward and Quil tumble out of it. He landed on the floor with a "Not my fault," and a "Nice toes. Emb says they're like jelly beans!" Jacob kicked him under the table and he rolled into one of the legs, causing the table to wobble violently. "You're breaking my house!" cried Bella while Mike laughed and laughed, and Angela got up and thumped Embry on the back. He kept gasping.

_Bing Bong, _went the doorbell.

Bella kicked Quil under the table, too. "You're breaking my house!"

"_You're _breaking your house! Ow!"

_Bing Bong._

"I'm getting the door!" she said, putting on her shoes. "And when I come back, you better not be a perv anymore!"

That only made Embry choke again.

The Clearwaters' brown Suburban was parked in Bella's driveway. Leah stood on the porch.

Stood.

"Leah?" said Bella. "But how—"

"It's a miracle!" she grinned. "The doctor said six to eight weeks till I healed. Try two! Ha!" She wore her long, shining black hair in two braids over her shoulders. "I got X-rayed at my check-up this morning. I'm fine! So they set me free. Damn, my feet are so itchy, though."

Bella couldn't help grinning back at her.

"I brought you some ice cream." Leah balanced a gallon of mint chocolate chip on top of the large cardboard box of music she kept under her bed. "Valentine's Day sucks so bad. I thought you might be unhappy, so I came over."

"Aw, thanks!"

"What's going on in your kitchen?"

"Quil."

Leah strode into the kitchen and dragged Quil out from under the table. "Emb, hands. Jake, feet." The boys stretched Quil out on the floor between them like a licorice stick, and Leah sat on his chest and tickled his stomach and armpits. He shrieked like a little girl.

"Know your enemy," she said to Bella. "Know his weakness. Get the feet."

Bella took off his shoes. "Your feet stink, Quil."

"Tickle them anyway," said Leah. "Arches. Ankles." She nodded at the table. "Angela, get behind the knees."

Quil squealed and yelped, thrashing and trying to curl up to protect his middle. Leah lifted the hem of his T-shirt and blew loud, sloppy raspberries all over his pudgy stomach. She didn't stop till he was crying.

"Whatever you did," said Leah, "I'm sure you deserved this. And by the way, Bella, what are you wearing?"

She looked down at her enormous plaid outfit. "Er..."

"She looks really nice _under_ the shirt," said Jacob.

Bella stared at him.

"What?" He tried not to smirk at her too much, and Bella unbuttoned the flannel shirt and draped it over her chair.

Mike said he was pleased to meet Leah, and Bella set a seventh plate on the table. As they settled down to eat again, the boys couldn't stop exclaiming over Leah's recovery. Good as new, she said. Embry stared at her for a long minute, looking confused.

After lunch Bella served the ice cream. Charlie wasn't the kind of guy who had dessert dishes or sherbet bowls, so she was compelled to scoop it into coffee mugs and stick spoons in them. They all sat in the living room, where Leah checked out Charlie's stereo. He had a CD player, tape deck, decent speakers, and a turn table that had probably belonged to his parents. "Perfect," said Leah. Most of his records, though, were Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton, and Johnny Cash. Also, there was a bunch of Linda Ronstadt stuff. "Somebody has a crush," she said. "I can respect that. But what is _this?" _In a cabinet beside the TV she found an eight track cassette player and an embarrassingly large collection of Lawrence Welk.

"Definitely the grandparents," said Bella.

Leah dug through her own music and put on the Allman Brothers, and they all talked about their Valentine's Day woes.

"My girlfriend is seeing someone else," said Mike.

"Then she's not your girlfriend," said Quil.

This did not make Mike feel better. He sat on the floor beside the stereo, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes. Jacob and Bella described the guy they had seen in the coffee shop in Port Angeles and the way Jessica reacted to him. This made Mike feel worse.

"You should hit him," said Quil.

"I can't do that. I don't even know who he is, or where he lives."

"You should find him and hit him. Follow Jess around until you find him."

"That's called stalking, Quil," said Bella. She was curled up next to Jacob in a corner of the couch, one of Charlie's blue cushions under her elbow, and she cringed to think of how Edward had followed her. At the time, it seemed like proof of his affection. Now it just made her feel awful.

"Chicks love that," said Quil. He had claimed Charlie's brown La-Z-Boy recliner like a king might claim a throne. "And when you find him, you need to hit him in the face. Go for the nose. Bleeds the most. Looks awesome spilling down some asshole's face."

Mike stared at him like he was out of his mind.

"Well," said Jacob, "I think you have to do _something."_

Mike looked miserable.

"Cheer up," said Leah. "My boyfriend is seeing someone else, too. He's shacked up with my cousin and former best friend. I gave him three years of my life, and he gave me some lies about love at first sight with my cousin. He dropped me in the woods, and when I finally found some satisfaction in kicking out the headlights on his truck, he freaking broke my feet."

"He did not break your feet," Embry said. "You broke your own feet."

"He broke my feet indirectly. You would not believe how many things are his fault."

"Well, if I see him," groaned Mike, "maybe I'll hit him in the face for you."

"I got no girlfriend," said Embry. He sat on the floor opposite Mike, rounding out their circle as he leaned on the wall beside the arch of the kitchen doorway. Letting one long leg sprawl over the hardwood floor, he bent the other leg and rested his ice cream mug on his knee. His jeans had mud on the tattered hems. "Last summer I met a girl I really liked, but she lives in Canada in a house with no phone. That's hopeless. Now I have an unpaid part time job that keeps me up at night, my grades are shit, and if I even _think_ about girls I get my ass kicked."

"Think what you want," said Jacob. "There's no thought police."

Embry just snorted. Then he looked in his mug, which was now full of mint chocolate chip soup. "Damn it." He looked ready to cry again. "My ice cream melted."

Clinking his spoon at the bottom of his own mug to get the last bit of ice cream, Quil said, "I got no girlfriend, either. I had a plan. I was going to get a van. But now I'm totally screwed." He described the problem at Dowling's.

"That really sucks," said Angela. She sat on the couch with Bella and Jacob. She had pulled her feet up under her and draped one of Bella's grandmother's quilts over her legs.

"You should hit him," smirked Mike. "Go for the nose."

"No, seriously," said Jacob. "The guy is a racist prick. I wouldn't want to buy a van from him if he _would_ sell it."

"Well, it's the only one I can afford," said Quil.

This problem seemed the worst of all. No one knew what to say. Bella brought Quil another mug full of ice cream, and when he had eaten it, he pulled the lever on Charlie's old recliner chair and lay back, staring at the ceiling. "I am so fucked."

She had never seen Quil so unhappy. She stood beside the recliner and put a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks," he sighed. "I feel a little better. Hugs?" So she bent over and hugged him. That's when he flipped her into the chair and squirmed all over her.

"Ack!" she cried.

"Oh, comfort me," laughed Quil.

"Get off!"

Jacob peeled Quil off Bella. "Dickweed."

Quil sighed again. "That groping will have to last me a year."

When the Allman Brothers record ended, Leah looked in her box again and came up with some Grateful Dead. Bella liked the album cover. Skeletons and roses.

"Not the Dead," said Embry. "I hate the Dead."

"You used to like them," said Leah.

"Well, I changed my mind. The Dead suck. What else you got in here?" He dragged her cardboard box over the floor and lifted the flaps. "Zeppelin, Floyd—Ooh, _Atom Heart Mother—_Neil Young... Hmm, the Doobie Brothers? Okay, I'll let that slide." Setting aside his ice cream mug, he flipped through her vinyl records. "WAR, Blue Oyster Cult, Stones, Doors, Cream, Santana. Wow, you've got a lot of good stuff in here."

She seemed pleased and sat down beside him.

"Jethro Tull," he said. "I love Jethro Tull. And the Beatles, Iron Maiden. So you."

Leah took that as a compliment.

"Wait a minute..." Embry lifted an album with a picture of three men on it. They wore white leisure suits with their shirts unbuttoned to expose their hairy chests and a lot of gold medallions. The background of the photo was neon purple, and there were laser beams shooting from behind the men like a sunburst. "The Bee Gees?" said Embry.

Leah turned pink. "That's Seth's. I don't know how it got in there."

"It's yours." He grinned. It was the first smile Bella had seen from him. "Oh, my God. I'm telling everyone at school that you like the Bee Gees."

Leah reached for the album, but he held it over his head, just out of her reach. "_If I can't have you!"_ he sang in falsetto, _"I don't want nobody, baby!"_

"_You_ know the lyrics," she growled, reaching again for the.

_"__If I can't have you! Ah ah ah!"_

Quick as lighting, she leaped for record and swiped it from him. He blinked at her.

"I like the Bee Gees." Angela smiled at Leah, trying to be helpful. She raised an arm and pointed at the ceiling, then stretched it across her body to point to the floor on the opposite side. Back and forth, up and down, like a disco dancer. "Bow chicka wow," she sang, imitating the rhythm guitar. "Chicka chicka chicka wow wow."

"That's not the Bee Gees," Embry said flatly. "That's an acoustic porn soundtrack."

Angela blushed.

"Porn?" said Quil. "Yes. Where?"

Bella, Mike, and Embry cleaned up the ice cream mugs while Jacob, sitting on the arm of Charlie's recliner, patiently tried to explain to Quil the many ways he was an ass. He was still doing that when Bella had finished washing all the mugs and cleaned the lasagna plates, too.

"This birthday sucks," said Quil. "I got no girlfriend, no van, and no porn."

Bella suddenly remembered the gift that she, Leah, and Jacob had gotten him. It was still in her truck. "Well," she said, "at least you got friends. Not that you deserve them. Come on."

Everybody trooped out to the porch. It was a clear day. Spring's new grass was fresh and green on the lawn, and white and purple crocuses had sprouted near the porch steps. She hadn't known that Charlie had planted anything there. The redbud tree at the side of the yard looked like it might bloom in a couple weeks. Opening her truck's creaky door and reaching behind the seat, Bella found the box for the shirt they'd bought at the custom printing shop. Like Jacob's birthday shirts, it was black. Size XL.

Quil seemed more solemn as he peeled away the wrapping paper. "Really nice of you," he mumbled. He looked into the box and smiled. "I love it."

Printed across the chest were two words: _Space Cowboy._

Bella smiled at him, too. But then he stripped off his old shirt with much stretching and groaning in the direction of the girls on the porch.

"Clothe yourself, Cowboy," sighed Jacob.

Embry nudged Jake's shoe with his own. "I got you something, too," he said quietly.

If he had hoped to keep it from being a big deal, he utterly failed. Everyone trailed him to the trunk of his mom's Tercel. When he opened it, Bella saw a mess of metal. He pulled out an enormous, boxy, steel thing and set it in the grass.

"The VR6?" said Jacob. He looked stunned. "Oh, Emb! How?"

"There's a salvage lot outside of Port Angeles. Free! But let me tell you, I felt like a junkyard dog sniffing this out."

There was, he said, a recently wrecked electric blue VW R-32 in there. From the looks of it, some idiot had been driving too fast and wrapped it around a tree. When Jacob looked concerned, Embry assured him that the driver would have been able to walk away from that, but the car was totaled.

"I can't believe it!" said Jacob. "I can't believe it!" He bent over the engine, tracing his fingers over the casing. "Emb, I love you. But this is— I hate to say it— The VR6 is a monster. And the R-32 is four wheel drive. This thing would tear up the Rabbit because—"

"Drive train differential." Embry tossed a long metal thing on the ground.

"Oh, Emb. I can't. The Rabbit's only got five gears, and this needs—"

"Torque converter." Another mess of metal was tossed on the ground. "And I pulled this shifter out of an A-6. I think it's mahogany."

Jacob fell to his knees in the dewey grass and burst into tears.

There was a CV boot in Embry's trunk, too. It was pretty greasy, and he had put it in a large plastic bag. He promised to drive all this stuff home tonight and leave it in Jake's garage. "And I can help you install some of it tomorrow, if you're not busy."

As far as Bella could tell, Embry had just given him the guts of his dream car, to be housed in the Rabbit's humble shell. She didn't know whom to hug first. But since everyone else was clustered around Jacob, she slipped around him to see his brother. Embry had his hands in his pockets, leaning against the Tercel.

"Life is shit," he said, very quietly.

That was not what she was expecting him to say.

"You and me, we know it."

His eyes were black like Jacob's. He wore the faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt Quil had given him, and there was a smear of pine sap on his sleeve. She stared at it, thinking it was going to be hard to get out in the laundry. When he reached for her hand, she moved closer and he held her against his side, his arm around her shoulders.

"Life is shit, and it's short." He whispered this into her hair. "Nobody can make you feel something you don't. But if you do—and I'm hoping you do—I hope you'll let it show. You can make him equally happy. I know he'd make you happy. I know it. I know all kinds of things, unfortunately." His breath felt warm on her scalp. "Please, Bella," he mumbled, "can you help me? I need you to help me. I can't even remember what happiness feels like."

She felt like he'd taken a knife and slid it under the first layer of her skin. It hurt. He saw too much. He turned her around, looked directly into her eyes, and he _saw_ her.

"You still have a chance. You're a survivor. Be strong."

So softly, he touched his lips to her forehead.

Jacob turned around then and told Embry to get off his girlfriend. "Not your girlfriend," smirked Embry. "Not really." And he slapped her hip so it stung just enough to make her squeak. "How's your Valentine's Day?"

Bella skittered away from him, fanning a hand behind her to fend off further assault on her backside.

She asked Jacob to show her the engine, even though she knew she wouldn't understand any of it. It seemed caring. Mike particularly admired it. Jacob was trying to explain what an intake manifold was when they heard a small tapping sound. And a muffled bleating. "_Help..._" The sound seemed to come from far away. _Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap._

"Leah?" said Quil. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"This is not nothing. This is Seth trapped in your truck."

Sure enough, he was in the backseat tapping his knuckles against the glass. "_Childproof locks," _he mouthed.

"For fuck's sake, Leah, you can open these doors only from the outside." Quil sprung Seth. "He was out here the whole time?"

"Yes. And I was having fun."

"Aw, Seth." Bella hugged him. "Leah, you're a turd."

In the house, she scooped another mug of ice cream for Seth and they all sat in the living room again. Quil resumed his lordly place in Charlie's recliner, and the three girls sat on the couch. Leah put her feet on the coffee table. Bella decided to allow this since she had taken off her shoes. Embry, Jacob, and Mike dragged three kitchen chairs into the living room, and Seth sat at Bella's feet. He offered her a small box wrapped in pink paper: a Justin Timberlake mix tape. Bella looked to Jacob.

"I listened to mine," he said. "I kind of liked it."

"Well, okay then. Thank you, Seth."

She popped it into Charlie's tape player while Leah rolled her eyes.

Bella had to admit that she liked it, too. It was so cheerful, exciting. Fun. Synthesizers. Solid bass lines. Seth said that Jake and Justin Timberlake had the same birthday. Not really necessary to point that out, said Jacob. When "Rock Your Body" played, Quil looked at Seth.

"You wanna go?"

Seth put down his ice cream.

As Jacob had suspected, Quil and Seth had been planning something. As Leah had suspected, those two had spent two weeks in Seth's room watching YouTube videos. And as Seth had said at Jacob's birthday party, girls would want to dance with him as soon as he learned all of Justin Timberlake's moves.

He was _amazing._ The way he turned, spun on his toes. His quick slides. The roll of his hips. Quil was slightly less agile, but still pretty good. Laughing, Jacob dragged the coffee table away so they'd have more space. Even the way Seth turned his head, popped his elbows to the side, was perfect. Bella had never seen anybody so quick, so assured, in his movements.

"Seth, you're a dancing genius!"

He beamed at her.

Quil grabbed her hand and tugged her off the couch. "_Don't be so quick to... walk away," _he sang. "_I wanna rock your body. Please stay."_

And like his father, whom Charlie had said could whistle right on pitch, Quil could actually _sing._

She felt the glow of the music blooming inside her.

Seth pulled Angela into the dance. She giggled so hard she could barely stand up.

"Woot! Woot!" sang Mike and Embry.

Bella was a horrible dancer. But Quil spun her around enough so that all she needed to do to keep up was laugh. He bumped her hip with his own. When the song was over Bella and Angela collapsed into each other's arms. Seth and Quil high-fived one another, and Leah pulled Seth down onto the couch with her and put kisses all over his head. "You're really, really good at that. Really good, Sethy."

Bella brought everyone into the kitchen with her after that. She poured herself a tall glass of cold milk. Seth wanted one, too, but everyone else just wanted water, and they all sat around the table, frosted Bella's four dozen cupcakes, and ate every single one of them. After that, they started in on the candy conversation hearts.

"PLAYER" said Quil's. He seemed to like it. He pushed it around on the table in front of him but didn't eat it.

"U R SWEET," said Leah's. She frowned at it.

"TIGER," said Embry's. This made him groan.

"UR THE ONE," said Mike's. This made him groan, too.

"WAIT," said Jacob's. He looked at it bleakly.

"4-EVER," said Bella's. This just made her mad, thinking of Edward.

"HOT STUFF," said Angela's. Suddenly, her face turned pink.

"What's wrong?" said Leah.

"Ben," she said, looking at the table. "He said I was—"

"You don't have to say it, Ange," said Bella.

"He said I was— Well, the opposite of hot stuff. To our friends at school. Not to me." She stared at the white heart in front of her, and her eyes began to water.

With the bottom of his water glass, Jacob ground the heart to powder. "_I_ think you're hot stuff. _ I_ think you're beautiful."

"If it's any consolation," sighed Seth, "mine says 'NEVER.'"

Angela used her water glass to smash Seth's candy.

So Bella smashed hers, too, and pretty soon they were all laughing again, talking about the bullshit of this holiday and grinding the ridiculous love messages to dust. "SOUL MATE." Smash. "PURR-FECT" Smash. "SWEET TALK." Bleck. "LOVE BUG." Whatever. "ALWAYS," "CLOUD NINE," "LUV YA," "BE TRUE," "XOXO," "ALL MINE," "CRAZY 4 U." Smash, smash, smash, smash, smash, smash, smash. One of the hearts said, "FILTHY SLUT," and Quil slipped it into his pocket.

"A guy can dream, right?"

Seth licked his finger and stuck it in the candy dust. "Mmm."

"Messy," said Leah. "We should have straws. Like with pixie sticks."

A search through Charlie's kitchen drawers yielded only three straws.

"We'll cut them in thirds," said Mike. "Where's the scissors?"

It was the kind of thing, said Charlie later, that can send a guy to the hospital with a heart attack. Particularly a guy who is a policeman. He had come home at three o'clock and found eight teenagers at his kitchen table hunched over little piles of dust and short straws.

Most of her friends had gone home then, except for Jacob and Embry, who stayed for dinner. Quil rode home with the Clearwaters, and she could tell Embry stayed to cover the fact that Jacob had ridden here on the motorcycle. "How ya gonna get home, Jake?" would have been one of Charlie's questions for sure. "And how did you get here?" These questions that would have occurred to a less observant father than he. And Charlie would have asked them in a way that implied he already knew there wasn't a good answer.

"I had a really good day," Jacob told her as they stood on her porch, saying goodbye. He hugged her, running his hands down her back slowly, swaying with her gently. Almost like a dance. "I had a really good day with you."

That night, getting ready for bed, she looked at the quilt her grandmother had made. Lots of little pieces, stitched together. Shapes that would only have been tiny triangles and squares on their own, but that became big, bright stars together. Blues and pinks and greens. Florals and plaids. Small things turned into a garden of stars, together.

She smoothed her hand over the fabric and looked at the picture of her grandmother that Mrs. Weber had given her. Finally, she felt she understood. And maybe, within this garden, she could find the strength to grow a little more.

It had felt so strange when Jacob smashed that "MAY-B L8R," heart this morning. It didn't feel good. And maybe that was because she didn't want to smash the idea. It wasn't a Yes, in her heart. But it wasn't a No anymore. Maybe it was a Maybe. The thought was frightening. But she didn't want to stop thinking it. Maybe.

_I am a survivor._

Maybe.

She put on her nightgown and crossed the floor toward her closet to put her jeans away. But she didn't make it that far. In the middle of the room she paused, her head feeling fuzzy. So heavy. Her stomach hurt, and she fell down on the wood, clutching her middle.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading.<em>

**Updated roll call: **Hooray for Twilight fans near and far! Readers who joined in are from Aruba (1), Australia (1), Brazil (1), California (1), Connecticut (1), Dubai (1), France (2), Hawaii (1), Indonesia (1), Japan (1), Michigan (1), Minnesota (3), New Jersey (3), North Carolina (1), Ohio (3), Oklahoma (1), Oregon (1), South Africa (1), Sweden (1), and Texas (3). **Where are you from? ** I'll add you to the awesomeness.

_Questions for you… _

_**Funny parts or favorite parts?**_

_**What**** do you think about Embry's advice to Bella?**_

_**And Who wants Quil?** Seriously, like, who wants him? I've had readers make very sweet requests to have their very own character, and Jake, Embry, and Seth are all spoken for. (Sweet little Seth, to be sure, has been reserved for one reader's daughter.) But what about Quil? I don't see anybody beating down my door to claim Quil. Isn't he loveable? Anyone? And if no, why not? Damn it. I like him._

That's all. Previews of Chapter 30 to reviewers. Please let me know if you enjoyed the chapter! I realized this morning that I have been working on this book for THREE YEARS, and it really, really, is rewarding to hear from readers.

I also calculated this morning, according to the website stats, that **less than 1%** of readers commented on the last three chapters. Truly. Sixth tenths of one percent. Oh, I want to cry. Did I mention this took three years? Won't you take a few seconds to say hello? Your comments are encouraging to me, even when folks just say "hi." It's like, Yay, there are PEOPLE out there choosing to read this. I am grateful for every reader. I don't mean at all to downplay my gratitude for the 1% who speak. I love you. But right now AmandaForks is so sad and painfully discouraged by the silence of 99%. Is this story sucking? Why am I doing this? Hello?


	30. Chapter 30 Grave Reflections

_Dear Readers, thank you. Thank you all. At the end of Chapter 29, I was so sad, feeling like I was sending my story to a 99% indifferent audience. But you proved me wrong. Over and over. I heard from so many new readers, including some who reviewed every chapter as they read along. You all should get some kind of FF award or badge. And I heard from readers who had NEVER posted a review before, and I am so pleased that you liked my story enough to do that! Thank you! And I also heard from many long-term readers, and this was especially heartwarming. I had feared that people who were once interested in my story were no longer reading. There is, after all, life beyond the internet. (Not that I've been there.) But learning that you are still reading was wonderful._

_There _are_ people out there! Nice, sweet, thoughtful people who shared their opinions. You all have renewed my faith. I was ready to cry when I hadn't heard from you, and then I was ready to cry again when I heard from so many of you. Darn it! You all made me cry!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty<strong>

**"Grave Reflections"**

Having cleaned Newton's Outfitters' customer restroom (did Mrs. Newton employ her for any other purpose?) Bella stood at the front counter for almost four hours on Sunday morning. With steelhead season picking up, they were seeing more out-of-town customers. There was some grumbling about the closure of access to the Hoh River, but Mike urged them to consider the Bogachiel or the Calawah. Those rivers was, he said, were where the locals go. And what out-of-towner doesn't like to feel that he knows something the locals know?

That morning, Bella sold a lot of fishing line, fishing licenses, gloves, and a few cheap ponchos for the numbskulls who'd forgotten to bring them. There was a collective feeling, among Forksians, that fancy-pants Californians came up here for the fish and left because of the rain. Bunch of wimps, all of them.

"Catch anything?" Bella asked dully.

Most of them had. Some showed her pictures on their cell phones. Grinning men and women holding silvery fish the size of baseball bats. The fish were beautiful, with speckles and green and red streaks on their sides. Was this what Charlie and Harry loved so much? As the morning passed, her interest changed from minimally polite to mildly intrigued.

"You should come out with me and my dad sometime," said Mike. "I swear, he can read water."

"Maybe I will." Had she actually said that? _Me, fishing?_ She looked at the ceiling as if expecting it to drop. But of course it didn't, and she found herself saying that maybe she'd go out sometime with her own dad.

"Even better," said Mike. Half this town wanted to know Charlie Swan's fishing secrets. "You can be my mole."

"I'm not going to spill Charlie's fishing secrets!"

"I'll pay you," he laughed. "My dad will pay you."

"No!" She was laughing, too.

"Are you two having fun?" said Mrs. Newton.

Mike tweaked the string on her green smock so that it became untied and went back to work.

When she had awakened that morning, she'd found herself on the floor of her bedroom. Charlie was leaning over her. She sat up, rubbing her stiff shoulders, and tried to smooth her hair into any other shape than the one it currently had. She was pretty sure she looked like a haystack.

"Did you sleep here on the floor all night?" Charlie asked. "Did you faint again?"

"I don't know... I guess I did."

Charlie didn't look convinced.

Bella tried to think about how she got there. She remembered thinking about Jacob and feeling hopeful about something. She had put on her nightgown, folded up her jeans, and then... She couldn't remember what happened after that. But a vague sadness was starting to creep through her body.

"Is this about Edward?" said Charlie. "I thought you were getting better, but these last few days you've seemed— Well, I worry about you."

"I'm okay?" _Why did that sound like a question?_

"I'm making a appointment for you with Dr. Gerandy."

She took a shower and had a bowl of raisin bran for breakfast. At the kitchen table, she read through the Sunday comics in the _Forks Forum_. Snoopy was funny. She smiled at her father. "I feel fine now."

"Still going to the doctor."

When she got home around one o'clock after her shift at Newton's, Charlie informed her that Dr. Gerandy would be expecting her after school on Monday. Bella rolled her eyes and made herself a cheese sandwich.

Yesterday had been a really nice day, she thought. So many friends. Friends who knew she might have been sad on Valentine's Day. Friends who needed her to cheer them up, too. _Not the only one._ And in the end, they all felt better for spending it together. She could hardly believe how many cupcakes they had eaten! The tins were still stacked up on the counter. She finished her sandwich, and as she was washing up, the doorbell rang.

Angela stood on the porch, looking pink and flustered. She was still in her church clothes, a knee length black skirt, dark hosiery, and a lime green cardigan sweater set. Her hair was combed neatly, pinned above her ears with two gold barrettes, and she wore a small gold necklace with a heart locket and black shoes with a low heel. It was the hosiery that made Bella stare. She hadn't worn anything like that since Phil and Renee's wedding. And before the wedding, she hadn't worn anything like that since—ever.

"Pantyhose?" she said.

Angela pushed past her into the house. "Can we talk?"

"Sure, but—"

"Like, alone?" Angela whispered. She glanced nervously at Charlie, sitting in his recliner. He was reading some kind of anthropological text on the tribes of the Olympic Peninsula: Elwha. S'Klallam. Skokomish. Hoh. Makah. Quinault. Quileute. Their names were printed on the back cover.

She told Angela to wait in the kitchen while she got rid of Charlie. "Yes?" he said when she approached his chair. And to her mumbled request, he said that he'd go read in his room so they could talk about boys.

"We're not talking about boys."

Charlie glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen. "Five bucks," he said.

"Aw, go away, Dad."

He walked up the stairs very slowly.

In the kitchen, Bella found Angela helping herself to a glass of water. She took tiny sips and looked at Bella over the rim of the glass with her big brown eyes. They seemed bigger today. Bella got a glass of water for herself, took a seat at the table, and gestured for Angela to sit down, too.

"You okay?"

"Yes. No. Well, I— Can we talk about boys?"

Darn it. There went five bucks.

Angela said she was tired of feeling sad about Ben. She had liked him so much, had even wanted to go to college with him, and she had no idea that he found her awkward, physically. "How was I supposed to know what to do?" she demanded. Ben had been her first boyfriend, and she had thought that, out of all the people in this town, he wasn't going to hold it against her if her preacher's kid love life had been kind of non-existent. And geez, even if he did think she ought to be a better kisser or something, couldn't he have just said so? Shouldn't that have been a fun thing to learn with a person you liked? Why hadn't she realized he was having these thoughts about her? And what kind of person would tell friends at school about it? That was private.

"I don't know, Ange. I thought he liked you a lot."

"Well, he did. In many ways, I know he did. And he wasn't a jerk completely. I just— I'm so hurt about what he said."

Bella nodded.

"Which is why I'm ready for someone new."

"Huh?"

"I want you to tell me more about Jake's friend."

Bella choked on her water.

"I guess this sounds sudden. But I really liked him."

"Oh. Okay..." Bella wasn't sure where to start. She had never been in this position before. Was it match-making? Angela looked so hopeful. She probably, Bella realized, thought that Bella could help. "Um," she began, "I don't know him too well. He's really nice, I think."

Angela nodded.

"Super smart, from what I hear. Leah said so. He seems very... Caring? Yes. You can tell he cares about other people, about his friends. And okay, I have to admit, he's... Um..."

"Really cute?"

Bella blushed. Mumbled an agreement.

"I know," sighed Angela.

"And he's kind of quiet. Like you, right? Oh, Ange, maybe you and Embry could—"

"No, not Embry. I mean, yeah, he's—holy crap—_beautiful,_ but I meant Jake's other friend."

"Seth? He's fourteen."

"No, his _other_ friend."

Bella stared at her.

Fluttering her hands in the air, Angela fanned her pink cheeks.

"_Quil?"_

"Yes! Do you have his phone number?"

Bella didn't know where to begin. She had to drink half her glass of water before she found the words. "Oh, Ange, he's not like us. Loud. Stupid. Immature. Perpetually horny. Possibly in possession of some really weird magazines. If you knew half the stuff he thinks about—"

"Well, doesn't everybody think about that stuff?" said Angela indignantly.

"He just turned sixteen yesterday."

"So? I'm still seventeen. And if I were older, I wouldn't care. He just seems so funny and cheerful. He made me laugh."

"He makes slug impersonations with his stomach. He's pretty—"

"Adorable. He reminds me of the Pillsbury Dough Boy."

"And you find this attractive?"

"Yes! I just wanna squeeze him."

Bella allowed herself a quiet moment to imagine thunking her forehead on the table before admitting that she had his phone number. She passed Angela a scrap of paper she'd stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

The reason Angela wanted to call him right away was because her father wasn't busy this afternoon. She had been thinking about Quil's van problem, and she believed she had found a way to help him. All she had to do was get Quil and her father to go to Dowling's together.

"When he's not spreading the love of God," she said, "he spreads the fear of God. Fiery pit of Hell, stuff like that. He's very good at it."

She had already talked to her father, and he had agreed to intervene. Now she just needed Bella's help to call Quil, and then hopefully Quil would notice her and think about her because of her help.

"Good plan, right?"

"I guess so."

"I know I'm not as extroverted as he seems to be. Do you think he'd go for someone like me?"

"Oh, Ange. He'd go for anybody."

"Hey!"

"I don't mean that you're not pretty or fun to be with. It's just that he's—" _indiscriminately desperate _"—very interested in girls."

"Hmm," said Angela. She seemed to regard this favorably. Bella gave her Quil's phone number and watched her practice what to say. Then, taking a deep breath, Angela dialed the number. His mother answered. Nervously, Angela asked to speak with him.

"QUILLY!" hollered Joy. Her voice was so loud Bella could hear it from the receiver. "Phone call for you! And it's a _girl!"_

"I forgot to mention," whispered Bella, "that he comes with a mom."

Angela looked more nervous.

When Quil came to the phone, Bella listened to Angela's side of a very awkward conversation.

"Hi, it's Angela. How are you?"

...

"This is Angela. Bella's friend."

...

"My name's Angela. We met yesterday."

...

"So I was thinking about the problem with buying your van."

...

"Yeah. And I was thinking my father could help. He's a minister, and—"

...

"No, no praying necessary. So my dad said if you could meet us at Dowling's, he's pretty sure he can convince the guy to sell it to you."

...

"You could be there in half an hour? Sure. I'll see you there."

And so the plan was hatched. She called her father to confirm the time.

"This is a really stupid idea," said Bella.

"Shut up. I'm not going to marry him; I just want to see him again. Get to know him a little. He's cute and funny, and I liked him. Maybe he'll like me. And don't you think it's wrong how Mr. Dowling wouldn't sell the van?"

Well, yes, Bella conceded, it was very wrong of Mr. Dowling, and she had to admit that she, too, had been wondering how to help Quil. So what could she do but sigh and try to be supportive? Did she have something against _anyone_ from the Ateara household spending time with _anyone_ that she liked? That seemed excessive. But she was starting to wonder if Sunday the Fifteenth would be as bad as Friday the Thirteenth.

Angela fussed over her appearance. Should she change out of her church clothes? Maybe she should have done that before coming to the Swan house. Maybe she should rush home and change, she said, and then drive to Dowling's with her father.

"Okay," said Bella.

Or maybe she should borrow some of Bella's clothes, something more casual.

"Okay."

Or maybe she should just change her shirt. Was a cardigan and sleeveless sweater twin set kind of boring? Her mom had lent it to her. Did it make her look like somebody's mom?

"You don't look like a mom."

Maybe, said Angela, she should change her hair. Take out her little barrettes and tousle it up a bit.

Bella imagined a woman on the cover of a romance novel, swooning in the arms of a handsome pirate, with wind-tousled hair and a cardigan sweater set.

"No," said Bella. "Your hair looks nice. Just be yourself." _Wasn't that the lamest advice ever? _"Just be yourself and he'll like you."

Angela gave herself a little pep talk about being a confident, attractive person, and then she drove off in her white Corolla. Bella washed their water glasses in the sink, climbed the stairs, and slipped five dollars under her father's door.

* * *

><p>She spent the rest of the afternoon in fretful contemplation. There were so many things to think about that she felt restless and had to leave the house. The streets of Forks were quiet. Beneath a cloudy sky, in the soft, misty light of late afternoon, she walked beside mailboxes and parked cars, block after block, with her hands in the pockets of her red coat and Angela's knitted red cap on her head. She thought and thought. Four matters worried her.<p>

First, there was her history assignment. Her essay about Vera's youth had earned an A. Now she needed to write about how the Great Depression had affected the rest of her life. Albertine had given her the basics, but Bella wasn't sure that was good enough. Mrs. Kranz would recommend her for a scholarship if she could produce an outstanding essay, and she couldn't stop thinking about what Mr. Horowitz had said: _When you're ready for some cold, hard facts, you come to me. _It scared her. It made her feel as if there were something worse, much worse, than learning that Edward's lullaby was just an old song. She did _not_ want to go to Mr. Horowitz for any hard facts. But something told her that she would do it, and soon. She pushed her hands deeper in her pockets, trying to stay warm.

A second problem was her mother. It had been more than two weeks since she'd last replied to her messages. And in that time, her inbox kept filling with emails. Different kinds of emails than the usual ones. It was as if her silence had triggered something in Renee.

_Sweetie, Charlie and I are so proud of you. Phil is, too. _

What?

_I hope you know that we love you._

Why was Renee saying these things? Her last message had begun, _Honey, I'm so sorry about— _but Bella couldn't read the rest of it. She had just logged out. The whole situation made her stomach hurt.

She walked past the school. There were a couple of cars in the staff parking lot, but otherwise the place was empty. She cut across the baseball field, where the dewy grass soaked through the canvas of her red Chucks.

A third problem was Angela. Why on earth was she interested in Quil? She couldn't think of anyone more different from Angela: he slept instead of studied; he seemed to spend a lot of time alone with unmentionable magazines, or at least with unmentionable thoughts; he had stinky feet and a pudgy tummy; he smelled like vegetable soup. She also thought about what Charlie had said of his father: _patient, loyal, forgiving, and a lot smarter than he let on. _Could Quil be those things, too? She had to admit that despite his quirks, he was a good friend. But Angela's interest in him made her almost as nervous as Charlie's interest in Joy. These were bad ideas. Something bad would happen, but it was hard to say exactly _what_ made her so uneasy.

Division Street began a block from the high school and divided the north from the south part of town. Leave it to Forks to come up with such a dull, yet practical, street name. She walked east, toward the mountains. The green forest rose up, up, up into the mist in the distance.

Somewhere out there, Mount Olympus stood with its beautiful snow-capped glaciers. But it was visible from Forks for only a handful of clear days each summer. She remembered seeing a poster in the community center in La Push: "Quileute Territory," it was labeled. The foreground of the drawing showed First Beach, Akalat, and the Quillayute River pouring into the sea. Behind that was the village. Behind that was the forest and the river valley. The forest and the Territory rose up and up, all the way from the ocean to the top of Mount Olympus. Other posters showed similar territories of other tribes who lived at river mouths. It was as if the Olympic Peninsula were a pie, and every tribe had a wide slice narrowing to a point on the mountain top. Now the Quileutes, like most of the other tribes, were left with a speck of crust at the beach.

Life sucked so bad sometimes.

She walked along dreary Division Street. There were no sidewalks. Just overgrown lawns and ditches that ran the length of the street, always ready for a deluge of rain. She walked past pickup trucks and gravel driveways. After several blocks, the street ended in a meadow. Beyond the meadow were the forest and mountains, and in the meadow were dozens of elk.

It was hard to believe she had lived here a year and never seen these things before. They were massive, ponderous, heavy animals. Deep, shining brown eyes. Dark hooves, dark noses. Their sides were a soft tan. The females were smaller, lighter colored, and the males' necks and shoulders were draped with a thick, wooly collar of dark hair. Brown bone arced over their heads, their antlers split in many points. They bent their large, noble heads to the earth, and their soft lips pulled up the grass in wet clumps.

Bella leaned on a fence, watching them, thinking and thinking.

The fourth thing she worried about was Jacob.

She had been happy on Valentine's Day. So many friends. And she had been happy on Friday, cuddling on Jacob's couch with a movie. And she had been relieved, in Port Angeles a few days ago, to lay her head on his chest in the coffee shop and be done, _be finished, _with labels and advancing and retreating. He had forgiven her, and they had reached a new and better understanding: that they needed and wanted each other, in whatever way made her most comfortable.

_What makes me comfortable?_

She felt so confused.

There were certain lines that must not be crossed, words that must not be said. Edward had broken her heart, and the only way to hold the pieces together was to not do or say certain things. Otherwise, she would die from pain. Right?

This had made so much more sense a few weeks ago.

Jacob was her friend. Was she dead yet? No.

Jacob hugged her and whispered to her. Dead yet? No...

Jacob smelled good and he touched her shoulders. Dead? No...

So maybe doing or saying a few _more_ things would not lead to death.

Then again, maybe pain and death were waiting just around the corner. Jacob… cared... for her, but nothing was _certain,_ there was no way to tell _for certain _that he wouldn't trample on her, perhaps by accident. She trusted him not to do it on purpose, but maybe something would happen beyond their control to separate them. Sooner or later. On Valentine's Day, she had smashed a pink heart that said, "4-EVER." That was a bunch of crap. Look what happened with Leah—and she had had a normal, human boyfriend! There was no way to say _for certain_ that something awful wouldn't happen.

Some of the elk were looking at her. They chewed slowly, gazing at her as if she were no more interesting than the fence post she leaned on.

_I am more interesting then a fence post,_ she told herself. _I am a unique human being with terribly important feelings, and my thoughts and feelings matter because... because..._

Bella suddenly realized that she hated elk.

She walked back to town along Division Street, wandered north on Maple, and east again on Calawah. Her feet were getting cold, and she felt so tired. When she saw a park, a shady place with tall, solemn trees, she trudged in there, looking for a bench where she could sit and rest. As soon as she passed the bushes near the road, however, she saw that this was not a park after all. It was the Forks Cemetery.

Well, wasn't that just her luck? After one surprised stare, she looked for a tombstone where she could sit and rest.

It was a quiet place. Soggy lawns of thick grass. White stones. Tall fir trees, standing over the graves with their heavy branches. Charlie had taken her here once, several years ago, to see the place where her grandparents were buried. Now she walked slowly among the stones, looking for them.

Growing up meant growing old. If she were with Edward, it would never happen. An ordinary human life was temporary and painful. She could die slowly, miserable over how Edward had left her, or she could die quickly, her heart irreparably broken a second time, when Jacob left her. Billy had said, _You're stronger than you think._ So maybe she could die slowly and miserably over Jacob, too. Was that what Billy meant? _Thanks a lot, Billy._

Her head hurt. She tried again to articulate her worries.

_Love = pain, sooner or later._

_I will get old and die._

_I might not get old and die. However, I will still die._

_Jacob wants to eat my toes._

_Love will make me die._

No, this still wasn't making any sense.

She found her grandparents buried beneath a yew tree. She only knew it was a yew tree because there was a sign beneath it that said, "Yew Tree. Traditional in English Cemeteries." Was Forks trying to pretend to be British? This made her head hurt more. She knelt in the damp grass.

"Grandma?" she whispered.

The names "Helen and Geoffrey Swan" were carved into marble. She couldn't remember her grandfather, but she remembered her grandmother and their house. It was a small, single story brick building. The walls within were painted soft yellow, like morning sunlight. In the backyard, there had been a raspberry patch. She remembered her grandmother sending her outside with a little blue bowl. She must have been only four or five years old because in the raspberry patch, the canes arced over her head. Walking between the rows of bushes, she plucked the berries very carefully. Still, sometimes, the thorns scratched her hands.

She spent hours in that raspberry patch one summer while visiting. And she also remembered playing on the beach with Jacob—had he been only two or three?—while he dragged a bucket of sand almost as big as he was. She remembered how she would pick raspberries for her grandmother, carry the blue bowl into the house, and after dinner her grandmother would serve vanilla ice cream with a few raspberries on top for her and Charlie.

"You got all scratched up, didn't you?" she said one day.

Bella remembered trying to hide her hands. She had felt ashamed.

Her grandmother gave her a second bowl of ice cream. "Look at this," she said, pouring all the remaining raspberries into Bella's bowl. "Look what you did. You got all these pretty things for us, honey, and sometimes it hurts, doesn't it? But it's worth it."

The memory made her cry. She lay down in the grass on top of the grave and said, "Grandma, what should I do?" There was a big marble angel on a neighboring grave, looming over her with its rigid white wings, and it reminded her of the way she had viewed Edward. She turned her face away and cried more. "What should I do?"

No one could tell her.

She felt exhausted and sick. The past was painful, the future was scary, and the present was marked only by her efforts to keep those things from bleeding into her days. _I have to do something different. _

She thought of the way Jacob's face had changed in the pizza parlor when she told him it wasn't a date. She never wanted him to feel like that again. Could she risk letting him show her how he felt—for real—and letting herself feel those things, too? She couldn't deny that she felt something. It was powerful and frightening. But she couldn't keep living like her main purpose was to block, deny, and deflect emotions. It hurt terribly. Maybe letting those feelings out would hurt, too, but wasn't there a chance—couldn't there be at least a small chance—that it _wouldn't_ hurt?

The grass felt cold on her cheek. She shivered and shivered, and then, as if in ill-timed cathartic symbolism, it began to rain. She was so heartsick that she couldn't make herself care enough to get up. The rain drenched her hair and coat. It made the denim of her jeans cold and tight on her legs. Her socks became sponges. Her shoes leaked, and the rain poured over her neck and tickled her ears. She cried and cried. Her hands felt numb with cold, and she wiggled them under her chest to try to warm them, but they just wormed into the grass and became muddy. Eventually, the rain soaked all the way through the back of her coat and spread through the wool to her front, where it made her stomach wet and cold, too. She lay still, listening to the rain drip through the trees and trickle down the white stones. It splashed in puddles in the grass. She could hear the soft, almost imperceptible seep of the earth beneath her cheek as the water rolled through the grass, and, as the minutes went by, she could hear the gurgle of runoff in the ditch beyond the cemetery gates.

After a long time, a pair of black rain boots appeared in front of her. A red umbrella was held over her head.

"You need some chicken soup," said Angela's mother.

* * *

><p>The Webers' house was across the street from the cemetery. Bella wished she had realized this. There was the church, right across the street, and the parsonage was beside the church. <em>Duh. <em>

Angela lent her some dry clothes, Mrs. Weber brought her a bowl of chicken soup, and the Reverend made her sit beside the fireplace in their living room. From that position Bella could look out the large picture window in the front of the house. It faced the cemetery. Apparently, all five of the Webers had been watching her for the past half hour.

"I thought you were praying," said the Reverend. His forehead wrinkled with concern. "At first."

"I thought you were sleeping," said one twin brother.

"I thought you were dead," said the other.

"Joshua and Lucas, you're obnoxious," said Mrs. Weber. "Go get Bella a blanket."

Bella sipped her soup slowly while Angela sat on the floor near her chair, rubbing Bella's bare feet in her hands to warm them up. "What happened to your feet?" she said. "So many scars."

Bella didn't want to talk about that. She concentrated on her soup while the Webers told her how very welcome she was at their house, any time she wanted to talk, or any time she just wanted some company.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

"When you have something that's hurting you, something that's difficult and you don't think you can do it alone, then you have to remember that you're_ not_ alone," said Angela's father. He had dark brown hair like Angela's and eyeglasses with a thin silver frame. He spoke so earnestly, sitting opposite her in an armchair beside the hearth, and leaning forward with his his hands gently clasped. "No one is alone."

Angela trotted upstairs and returned with a pair of wool socks. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Bella just shook her head and tugged on the socks. She felt exhausted and humiliated. She had never before realized what her behavior must look like to other people. Was it weird to cry on the ground in the rain? Correction: Was it weird to lie on a grave with your face in the grass and cry on the ground in the rain for half an hour? Apparently it was.

When she finished the soup, the Webers brought her a cup of tea and a plate of scones and jam. Angela's mother had warmed them up. They were beautiful, sprinkled with coarse sugar on top and flavored with ginger and lemon, and they tasted like heaven with the blackberry jam.

Angela's family sat blinking at her.

"Does your dad know where you are?" said the Reverend. "Would you like me to call him?"

She shook her head. Maybe if she kept nibbling on the scones, they wouldn't expect her to say much.

"Would you like me to drive you home?" asked Angela.

She nodded.

The Webers followed her to the door. Every single one of them hugged her before she left, and they held on long enough to make her squirm. "No one is alone," the Reverend reminded her. She thanked them all and ducked outside.

On the way home, Angela kept asking questions, so Bella deflected them with a question of her own: "What happened with the van?"

"Oh," said Angela, "it went okay. I guess."

Quil had ridden to town on Bella's motorcycle. Reverend Weber, before he met them at Dowling's, had gotten on the internet and looked up the _Kelley Blue Book_ value for a '92 Nissan Quest. It was pretty low. When you subtracted from that the cost of a new timing belt, the labor charge to install it, and the body work necessary to make the driver's door open again, the value of the van dropped considerably. With that information, and the subtle threat of eternal damnation, the Reverend persuaded Mr. Dowling to sell the van for much, much less than Quil had originally thought.

"I think he saved him at least nine hundred dollars," said Angela.

"Nine hundred dollars? Wow."

"Yeah. Quil put the bike in the back of the van and rolled away extremely happy."

Angela had stood on the sidewalk outside Dowling's salvage yard and listened to the squealing of the faulty timing belt until it faded in the distance. Her father asked if that was what she had hoped would happen. Yes and no, said Angela.

"Well, didn't he say anything to you?" asked Bella.

"He said, 'Thanks, bro,' and he gave me a high five."

"'Thanks, bro?'"

"That's what he said."

"Huh."

Later, however, the squealing came down Calawah Street, and the Webers were surprised to see Quil on their doorstep. He had brought his mom. Mrs. Weber invited them inside, and the Atearas expressed their sincerest gratitude. Mrs. Ateara seemed eager to befriend Angela's mom, and she just smiled and smiled at Angela and called her a darling girl.

"She's really nice," said Angela.

Bella frowned.

"But Quil only talked to my dad. He said he wanted to do something for us, like maybe mow the lawn in summer, and my dad said that wasn't necessary. But Quil kept talking about it, so my dad said he could help us paint the house. What he said was, 'You and Angela can paint the house,' and I looked at him and smiled, and then he said, 'Sweet.'"

"That's all?"

"You have to help me try again," said Angela as she parked in front of Bella's house. "Help me think of a way I can see him again or get him to talk to me."

Bella said she would try, and Angela walked her to the porch. "I think his mother saw right through me," she said. "It was kind of embarrassing. But she brought us a bunch of scones and that jam. Weren't they good?"

_Damn it,_ thought Bella. She should have known.

Angela handed her a plastic bag filled with her wet clothes. In the house, Charlie was putting on his coat, getting ready to go to the station and prepare some paperwork for Monday morning. He said he'd be out late, so Bella had dinner alone, finished her homework, and went to bed. Under her grandmother's quilts, she lay awake for a long time, trying to figure out what was real and true.

_Love hurts._

_Raspberries hurt._

_Raspberries are worth it._

_Crying on graves in the rain is really weird; therefore, I might be an idiot._

_I have to change something in my life._

* * *

><p>On Monday after school she sat on the exam table in Dr. Gerandy's office wearing her undies and a cotton smock that didn't tie all the way closed in the back. There were large stickers of cartoon characters on the walls, presumably to make kids feel comfortable, and for the rest of the Forksians to look at, there was a beautiful framed photo of a seaside golf course. <em>Aberdeen, Scotland,<em> it was labeled. She wondered if Dr. Gerandy liked golf. It made him seem vaguely exotic. Most everyone else around here liked fishing.

A nurse came and took her blood pressure and temperature. Normal.

Dr. Gerandy knocked on the door. He shook her hand when he entered, then made her stand on a scale. Not normal.

He poked around her face, looking carefully at her eyes, ears, nose, and throat. He asked her to lie flat while he pressed on her stomach through the smock, asking if she felt any pain here or there. No, she said. He asked her to sit up again and tested her reflexes. Somewhat slower than normal, but she tried to explain that she had always been like that. Dr. Gerandy palpated the glands in her neck, made her demonstrate her balance by standing on one leg in various postures, and he looked again in her eyes.

"Have you experienced any headaches recently?"

"Not really."

"Have you had any dizzy spells or shortness of breath?"

"Sort of. I felt kind of dizzy a couple days ago, and I think I fainted."

"You don't know if you fainted?"

"Well, I woke up on the floor."

"How many times did this happen?"

"Twice? Maybe three times?"

Dr. Gerandy wrote this down. "Have you been feeling distressed by emotions? Anger? Sadness? Anxiety?"

"I guess so. But I always feel that way."

He wrote this down, too, and told Bella that she could get dressed and join him at his desk down the hall. When she got there, Charlie was waiting.

"I can't say for sure that there's nothing serious happening," said Dr. Gerandy. "The fainting spells are worth monitoring. If it happens again, please make a note of the time. Also note your sleep and appetite."

Bella looked around the office. It was a dark room with heavy wooden furniture that made it seem solemn and serious. In her memory, Carlisle existed in a soft glow of white: his coat, his skin, his smile, and the white tiles of the emergency room and its bright overhead lights. Dr. Gerandy, by contrast, seemed dark. He was older than Charlie, and his brown hair was gray at the temples. He wore black loafers, and under his white coat he wore a dark tan button-down shirt with a golden brown striped tie. Carlisle would have smiled at her in a hazy, pleasant manner that would have made her feel that everything was fine. Dr. Gerandy, however, began to talk about nutrition.

"Um, can I go home now?" said Bella.

He kept talking. "There could be a vitamin deficiency. We could take some blood samples. If you are really worried about the fainting, we could send her to Port Angeles for an EKG, but I think that's extreme. Is there any history of seizures in your family?"

"No," said Charlie.

"Well, like I said, I don't think we need to consider an EKG at this stage. Just let me know if the fainting continues." He turned to Bella. "For now, I urge you to gain ten pounds and get outdoors for some healthful exercise."

Charlie drove her to the grocery store. It was time for their weekly shopping trip anyway. In addition to their usual purchases, he filled the cart with potatoes, sour cream, extra pasta, and Velveeta cheese. He told her that she ought to make macaroni and cheese for dinner, and she agreed as long as he'd put back that orange brick of pseudo-food and buy some real cheese.

"This is real cheese. But we can use both kinds." He added a block of cheddar to the cart. In the frozen food aisle, he asked if she liked pierogies.

"What are those?"

"Fattening."

At home Bella made macaroni and cheese while Charlie stood over her shoulder. She knew he was blaming himself for not being more attentive to her health. Work had kept him distracted, but he would not let that prevent him from looking after her more closely.

"I'm fine, Dad. This is not your problem. I'll just eat more cheese. How about Twinkies? I like Twinkies."

"No Twinkies." With one hand he opened the silverware drawer to get forks, and with the other he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, Bella. You don't make this easy."

Dinner was one big lecture. He was glad she was doing better, much better, than in the fall. He was glad she was making more friends and doing well in school again. But she still needed to make some changes.

"Okay, okay," she sighed.

* * *

><p>Tuesday brought more strange emails from her mother. She checked her messages on a computer in the school's library at lunch time.<p>

_Bella, when I was a girl I lived sixty miles outside of Boise. I know you've never been there. So much sky..._

She didn't finish reading that.

After school she and Angela went to Olympic Acres. Vera slept through their visit. As Angela talked with Albertine, gathering all kinds of details for her essay, Bella looked at her partner and began to imagine herself going across the hall to Mr. Horowitz's room. She had a terrible feeling about it. What was _in _there? And wouldn't Vera please wake up and speak to her? Couldn't Vera spare her the unpleasantness of whatever was behind Mr. Horowitz's door?

Vera lay on her bed, as white and still as a stone. One hand, partly snuggled into the pocket of her robe, clutched the crystal deer. Bella stared at her. She wanted to hold the deer, too.

At the end of their visit, Angela had to poke her. "You in there?" Bella shook her head to clear it. They walked out to the parking lot, where the fresh air seemed to help.

"I'm coming back here Thursday after school," said Angela. "I'll proofread my essay with Albertine. It's due Friday, you know."

"I know."

"Want to come with me?"

"Sure."

As Bella drove home, she had a bad feeling that on Thursday, she'd have to talk to Mr. Horowitz.

In her room, she sat on her bed and played her guitar.

_A minor. D major. A minor. D major. G major… __How long will my life feel this strange?_

_G major. D major. G major….. __How long am I going to LET life feel this strange?_

_G major. D major. G major. C major…. __I am a survivor._

She went downstairs and called Jacob on the phone.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading. <em>And thanks to guest reviewers Blue Moon, MAL, layla2974, nothinwrong2013, akala, Nikki, others. If you can sign in when you post, I can email you with a thank you and a preview. I would love to chat with you.

Updated roll call:** Join in**... Readers are from Aruba (1), Australia (2), Brazil (1), California (1), Canada (1), Connecticut (1), Denmark (holy moly!) (1), Dubai (1), England (2), France (3), Germany (1), Hawaii (1), Idaho (1), Illinois (1), Indonesia (1), Japan (1), Kentucky (1), Massachusetts (2), Michigan (1), Minnesota (4), Missouri (1), New Jersey (3), New York (1), North Carolina (1), Ohio (4), Oklahoma (2), Oregon (1), Pennsylvania (2), South Africa (1), Sweden (1), and Texas (4). **Wow.**

An Oklahoma reader asked where I am from. I live in California now, near San Francisco, but I was born and raised in Ohio. I love Ohio.

_**Questions**…. Help me with one or more of these parts?_

1. What do you think about **Angela's interest in Quil**? Do you share Bella's bafflement? Do we underestimate Quil's potential? And what do you think of **Quil's response** to Angela?

2. Your opinion on **Renee's emails**? Why has the tone of her messages changed? (Do you give a fig?)

3. Your opinion on the **Webers' witnessing Bella's wallowing and their response**?

4.** Favorite bits?**

5.** Where ya from?**

Thank you again, everyone. I was so heartened to hear from you. I hope you'll stay with me as we get to the final chapters. There are four more. Previews to reviewers. Bella is done with wallowing, and I think you'll really like the result of her phone call at the end of this chapter. Please send me a note. Thank you.


	31. Chapter 31 Jacob's Gift

**Chapter Thirty-One**

**"Jacob's Gift"**

On Wednesday, she could feel it. Something was changing. Her whole body felt glowing with possibility. She sat through her classes with tears in her eyes, but they were tears of cautious joy.

Something was changing. And maybe she was _making it_ change. Her heart felt so full.

Jacob's patience.

Charlie's care.

Angela's friendship.

Mike's company.

Leah's protectiveness.

Quil's teasing.

Seth's adoration.

Embry's encouragement.

Billy's faith.

Mrs. Kranz's promise.

How had it all come together? Was it her closer, unlabeled relationship with Jacob? Was it the way the Webers had watched her in the cemetery and—unintentionally—held up a mirror in which she could see herself as ridiculous? Pained, but ridiculous.

Maybe it was the way those elk had looked at her.

_Stupid, shiny elk._

Maybe it was just the knowledge that she _could_ change. Yes, she had a choice. She could do it. All this time, she had felt crippled by what happened with Edward. Life, as Embry had said, was shit. But he also called her a survivor. Not a casualty, an invalid, a liability, or a victim. A survivor.

That morning, before school, she had stripped naked in the bathroom. Looked at herself in the mirror. She saw a skinny, pale girl, but she was alive. And her eyes were brown and bright, not at all like the way Billy had described those deer left in the woods. She was a survivor.

She carried the thought in her head all day. The word was a gift.

_You still have a chance. Be strong._

Last night, talking on the phone with Jacob, she let herself feel just a little bit of the emotion she'd been trying so hard to stifle. It was scary. She slid down the wall and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself and holding tight. Jacob couldn't see her. He didn't know how badly she was shaking. But he seemed to sense a difference. He spoke to her so softly. She had closed her eyes as tears spilled down her face. Would you like to meet me tomorrow? he had asked.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Jacob."

Now it was Wednesday, and she had plans. Two plans.

One plan was to see a movie with her friends on Friday. Mike had suggested a group outing. Very loudly, after history class, he had invited Bella and Angela to go to Port Angeles Friday night with Bella's boyfriend.

_What?_ Bella mouthed.

Mike ignored her. He invited Jessica to come, too, and meet Bella's boyfriend.

Angela smacked Bella's arm, and she said stiffly, "Uh, yes. Let's go to the movies with my, uh, boyfriend." It was a lame performance, and it felt weird to say that word, but she played the role because she knew it would help Mike. Angela, too, joined in with, "Let's invite Quil. He can be _my _date." Then the three of them looked at Jessica, who said yes, maybe she would go to the movies on Friday night. However, she may or may not be going with someone else.

Mike tried to act cool about this. "See you there."

So that was one plan. Movies on Friday. Angela came home with Bella after school and telephoned Quil to extend the invitation.

"Hi, it's Angela. How's it going?"

...

"How's the van?"

...

"Great. Hey, I know there's an auto parts store in Hoquiam, so if you ever want company driving down there to buy a new timing belt, I could—"

...

"You already bought one? Oh."

...

"Well, anyway, I was wondering if you'd like to go to the movies with me, Bella, Jake, and Mike this Friday. There's a new romantic comedy about this couple who—"

...

"You want to see _Face Punch_? Isn't that the one with no plot? Like, lots of fighting and buildings exploding?"

...

"Uh, okay. Sounds fun." Here Angela looked at Bella with a pained expression_. _Bella shrugged.

...

"See you Friday. Bye, Quil."

Angela hung up the phone. "I think I need to learn how to flirt. He called me 'dude.'"

Bella had absolutely no advice for that.

The girls had a quiet dinner with Charlie. He fried pierogies with butter and onions and made Bella eat seven of them. Afterward, Angela went home and Bella went upstairs to get ready for her visit with Jacob. That was her other plan.

He had told her to dress warmly. That was all the information she could offer when Charlie asked where she was going. Her father looked up from the kitchen table, where he was wading through another pink sea of carbon-copy incident reports, and raised an eyebrow at her.

"I think it's a surprise," she said.

"A surprise."

_Why had he sounded more supportive when _I _made a surprise?_

"This surprise wouldn't be in the woods, now, would it?"

"No. Of course not."

"Come here." He made her sit down next to him. "I worry a lot." His forehead was creased, and his eyes flickered when he looked into hers. "I think something terrible happened to those hikers. I worry about everybody in this town, and I'm going to solve this crime. But I worry about other things, too. You, mostly."

She mumbled that she was all right.

"I really hope so. I don't want you to slide down that hole again, feeling bad about Edward. Because it would kill me, Bella. I really think it would kill me."

Her cheeks felt hot. Charlie looked out the window then, and she suspected it was to keep himself from tearing up. In the yellow light, he suddenly seemed so heartsick and weary, almost frail. She remembered that she was responsible for him. They were responsible for each other, a family.

"Dad. I'm okay. I'm just going out to La Push to see Jacob. He, uh... We're... I'm just going to go out there, and..." Darn it. Now her cheeks felt hot in a different way. At least, she thought, her discomfort seemed to cheer Charlie up a little.

"Is that so?" He tried not to smile.

"Shut up, Dad."

"I didn't say a word."

"Nothing is happening."

"Of course not."

He walked her to the door and said goodbye with a hand on her shoulder. "Be home by eleven."

* * *

><p>The sun was just setting when she reached La Push. Behind her, to the east, the blue sky was deepening to a purple twilight. To the west, down Jacob's street, she could see an orange-streaked horizon and the last glimmers of daylight on the water. When she pulled into his driveway, he popped up beside her window with a huge grin.<p>

"Ah! You scared me!"

"Sorry." He couldn't stop smiling as he opened the door for her. "You are not going to believe what's happening tonight." His eyes were sparkling with what looked like a juicy secret. Sure enough, he leaned closer and hissed, "I looked at the weather forecast."

_Okay, maybe life in a tiny seaside town is duller than I thought._

"I looked at the forecast, and tonight is one in a million. Well, maybe one in a hundred. Come on." He took her hand and towed her to the garage.

"Jacob Black, are you _giggling?_"

He was absolutely giddy. In the back of the garage, he flung a tarp off a pile of blankets and paper bags.

"What's this?"

"Stockpile." He made her help him carry them to the truck, where he spread the tarp in the truck bed and tossed the blankets in on top of that.

"What's in these bags?" she complained. "These are heavy."

"That's for me to know, and you to find out."

"Is this going to be bad?"

"Why do you always gotta think things will be bad?"

"I don't—"

"You sure do." He trapped her against the side of her truck with one arm on either side of her, his hands resting on the lip of the truck bed. "This," he said, smiling down at her, "is going to be very, very good."

His hair swung forward over his shoulders. He wore his green jacket, unzipped, and an old orange and blue plaid button-down shirt beneath it. As he looked at her, she felt a smile growing on her own face. The more he teased her about that, the harder she tried not to smile, but it was hopeless—she hadn't seen him this excited since his sisters came home, and his joy was irrepressibly contagious.

"You're smiling," he said.

"No, I'm not."

"You're smiling. I see it."

She pretended to be grumpy, but he tickled her under the arms until she shrieked and banged her knee on the side of her truck.

"Ow, ow, ow."

"Sorry. Shhh..." He was giggling so much it was hard for him to be sympathetic.

"You suck." With one hand, she hung onto her rearview mirror, and with the other she tried to tickle his stomach, but he dodged her and she fell on the gravel.

"Shhh... Sorry. Shhh..."

The door to Billy's house opened. "What's going on out there?"

"Nothing!" they both said.

Billy muttered something impolite and closed the door.

"Okay," said Jacob. "Here's the plan." He wanted to make sure she had a hat and gloves. Check, she said. And he asked if she had already eaten dinner. Check. Then he took her hand again and led her around the back of his house. Spring flowers were blooming along the wall, daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, and crocuses. They were the kind of flowers that come back every spring, on their own. She wondered if his mother had planted them. In the fading light, she saw blues, pinks, yellows, and whites. The hyacinths were so sweet she could smell them without bending her nose to the blossoms.

"Wait here," said Jacob.

As she stood alone in the quiet yard, he slipped around to the front door. She could hear the murmur of his conversation with Billy. Bland tones. Then a window just above her head slid open, and Jacob hissed her name. He was lowering pillows from the window. As she took them from him, he drew one finger over his throat, and she knew not to make a sound. He filled her arms with three pillows and one more blanket, and he was feeding the red and black wool covering for his bed out the window when they heard Billy call, "You better not be taking that Pendleton outside."

Jacob rolled his eyes and put it back in the house. "So much for sneaky," he said, vaulting from the window. He slid it shut behind him. "He hears everything."

Soon they were on the road, heading inland. Jacob had the windows rolled down. Bella could hear the last of the birds calling before sunset and the soft sound of the wind. The evening air was cool on her cheeks. But she couldn't see a thing because Jacob had taken her keys and, very gently, tied a bandana over her eyes. She put on her seat belt and stuck her head out the window, letting the wind play with her hair.

"Where are we going?"

"La la la," said Jacob. "Did you say something?"

They crossed a bridge. Bella could tell by the way the truck felt lighter for a moment, the suspension lifting as they bumped onto a new kind of road surface, and she could also hear the sound of a river. She guessed that they were heading north now. They hadn't gone east far enough to reach Highway 101, so she figured they had crossed a bridge, about halfway between Forks and La Push, over the Quillayute River. Sure enough, shortly after crossing the bridge, she felt Jacob turn left toward the ocean. She heard the sound of the breeze in the forest and the gurgle of water in the river.

There was something thrilling about trusting someone this much. They drove on and on, and she pressed her fingers over the bandana at her eyes, enjoying the sensation of sightlessness. Everything else seemed more intense: the sound of the tires, the wind on her skin. Even her awareness of Jacob seemed sharper. She slid her hand over the bench seat until she found his knee and tapped a hello to him. He took her hand in his own.

After ten minutes or so, they turned north again. If it hadn't been for the river, Bella would have been completely disoriented, but the obvious path of water to the sea helped her understand the direction of the roads. She had thought Jacob might be taking her to the beach somewhere north of La Push, but now they were going inland. The road was quieter. The trees, she could tell, were closer to the roadside.

"Where are we going?"

"To the mall."

"Come on. Where are we going?"

"Patience."

The road became bumpier, and Jacob slowed down, navigating, she guessed, around potholes. Then the texture of the road changed completely, a coarse grinding sound beneath the tires, and she realized they were driving on gravel now. She hadn't heard any breaks in the trees, such as an opening for someone's yard, for several minutes. The road texture changed again to the soft hiss of dirt, and Jacob drove more slowly, turning left and right, as the road wound into a quieter and quieter place. She couldn't hear any other cars. They drove this way for a long time, deeper and deeper into the land, and after a while, the night was no longer quiet. Spring frogs began to chirp. She heard crickets and other night insects. The land seemed to come alive.

At last the truck bumped to a stop on a surface she guessed was grass. Jacob told her not to move, but of course she did, poking her head out the window and listening to him moving things in the truck bed. When she heard him walk away, she got scared, but he began to talk to her, letting her know that he wasn't far. He was carrying the blankets and bags, she could tell. The tarp rustled as he dragged it over the grass.

Then he was back, slowly opening her door and guiding her to the ground. "No peeking." He adjusted the bandana and drew one finger over the smile on her lips. "I want to see you like this all the time," he whispered. "And I— I might as well tell you this while you can't look at me. I've wanted to do this for ages. Like, since I was twelve. God, this is so embarrassing."

"No," she said. She waved her hands in front of her until she found his chest. "Don't feel dumb. Look at me, I'm like a pirate who lost _both_ eyes."

Beneath her hand, she could feel his exhalation that was almost a laugh.

"I've wanted to do this for you since I was twelve. Which was the last time I saw you, before you moved back. You'd visit with your dad, and I'd just keep thinking about how you were older than me, and how you'd never think of me the way I thought of you. I thought maybe the next summer, when I was thirteen, maybe then I'd get the guts, but you stopped coming for a while. For a few years."

During those years, she hadn't _wanted_ to come. She had felt like she barely knew Charlie, she didn't have any friends in Forks, and she was just _tired_ of moving from place to place all the time with Renee.

"So I missed you," said Jacob. Gently, he tugged her hand, pulling her closer. She could feel the thick grass at her ankles. He placed his hands on her shoulders so she knew to stop walking, and then he drew her hair away from her neck. He ran his hands through the long strands, pulling it into a ponytail and spreading it out again. "And I also thought," he whispered, "that maybe I just wasn't good enough for you."

"Jacob."

"No, I— Let me finish." She stood utterly still as he traced the shell of her ear with one finger. "Bella, I have nothing. And when I saw you with that other guy, with his new car and big house, I thought, she'll never look at me now. But you're here, and I hope it's not just because he's gone."

Tears came to her eyes. That was how this started.

"I hope it's not why. But if it is, I hope someday it will be different."

"Jake—"

"Think of me. Think of me, please."

He lifted her in his arms and walked through the grass with her. She heard the frogs, sweetly calling, in the trees, and then she heard the crackle of the tarp as he carried her across it. In the middle, he knelt and lay her on the pillows. "This is what I have," he whispered. "This is everything, and I'm giving it to you."

When he untied the bandana, she saw millions and millions of stars.

She could hardly understand what was happening to her heart that evening. It hurt so much she thought it was breaking again, but then she thought maybe it was just breaking open. She let the tears roll down her cheeks as he lay beside her, holding her hand. Orion, he said, pointing at a constellation. He told her the legend of the hunter. The Twins, Castor and Pollux, in Gemini. Sirius, the Dog Star. Ursa Major and Minor. Draco, the Dragon. And Cassiopeia, the Queen. These he had memorized since he was twelve.

This place, he said, was a meadow where his mother used to take him and his sisters to look at stars. It was perfect for that. Absolutely no light pollution for miles, and the break in the trees was formed when an old pond dried up. He had driven them here on old logging roads. She thought about how she had hiked to a similar meadow with Edward, and now she was here with another human being, a person whose body was warm and breathing. But not just _any_ person. He was her best friend. She and Edward had skipped that part. She rolled to her side and looked at him, at the living miracle of _Jacob_.

"What are you thinking about?" he said.

"You." Her heart cracked open a little more. "Only you."

He rolled to his side, too. In the starlight, it was hard to see the expression on his face, but she thought it must be the same as hers. Wondrous. Scared. Joyful. He whispered her name and touched her forehead, drawing his fingers along her hairline, over her temples, and over her eyebrows. She closed her eyes as he gently brushed her eyelashes and the tip of her nose.

"Touch me," he whispered.

She placed one finger in the hollow of his throat. So warm and soft.

She felt the sharp intake of his breath as he shivered, then he sat up groaning, "Oh, God. We have to stop."

Bella rolled onto her stomach. Her whole body was tingling.

"Get up. Please, please."

The paper bags he'd brought contained a thermos of hot chocolate and half a dozen apples. They were crisp, cold, and sweet. She loved the contrast of hot and cold; it made her senses come alive, and she thought again that she was a survivor, still here, still very much inhabiting a real human body with physical feelings. The cool, cloudless night, the cold apples, and the hot cocoa made her feel like something was sparkling inside her. When they finished eating, Jacob very carefully arranged her on the pillows—"Stay put"—and settled himself next to her again. He drew the blankets up to their chests and put one arm around her, letting her lay her head on his shoulder. She snuggled against his side and put a hand on his chest.

"No," he said. "You're killing me."

Bella scooted away a little bit and watched the stars again.

She had never felt this way.

"This is not a date," he whispered.

"Definitely not."

"If it was, I'd be asking you to come here with me all the time."

"If it was, I'd say—" _Yes? _The word wouldn't come out. She felt the horrible sadness rise up in her body and she hated it, hated it so much. _Breathe,_ she told herself. It was hard. _Breathe. _Tears welled up in her eyes again, but she managed to force out one word: "Cold." And with each breath, the words became easier: "I was so cold."

She told him about the forest, being lost, running as far as she could, and then running farther. The big and black trees. How her feet were cut to shreds. The sounds of the animals, the hours that passed as she wondered not just how to find Edward, but how to find her way home. How she had shivered on the ground beneath a hemlock tree, shaking so hard she couldn't stand. She curled now into a tiny ball and burrowed beneath his arm. He curled around her, tucking her under the blankets and against his side.

A long while later, he smoothed his hand over her hair. He wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs. Wordlessly, he sat up and removed her shoes. Drew her socks off and lay them in the grass. And then, kneeling at her feet, he kissed every single one of her scars.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Readers, you are wonderful. Thank you for reading.<em>

_Please let me know where you're from if you haven't yet. The list is growing! No need to tell me twice, though, or I might accidentally count wrong. **Updated roll call: Join in!** Readers are from Aruba (1), Australia (2), Brazil (1), California (2), Canada (2), Connecticut (1), Denmark (holy moly!) (1), Dubai (1), England (2), France (3), Germany (1), Hawaii (1), Idaho (1), Illinois (1), Indonesia (1), Japan (1), Kansas (1), Kentucky (1), Massachusetts (3), Michigan (1), Minnesota (4), Missouri (1), Nevada (1), New Jersey (3), New York (2), North Carolina (1), Ohio (4), Oklahoma (2), Oregon (2), Pennsylvania (2), Russia (1), South Africa (1), Sweden (1), and Texas (5). Awesome!_

_Thanks to nothingwrong2013, Mal, BlueMoon, Lin from Russia (wow!), and Guests from England, California, and other places. Do sign in when you review, if possible, so I can write back to you with a thank you and a preview. _

**Though this chapter was short, I hope it felt important. Did it seem important to you? How? Please tell me what you think about Bella and Jacob's relationship lately. **

P.S. Previews to reviewers…..and Jake and Bella are still in this meadow in Chapter 32.

**Please review! Favorite moments or words? I hope to hear from you.**


	32. Chapter 32 Secrets and Mysteries

**Hello, Readers,**

**Updated roll call: Join in! ** Readers are from Aruba (1), Australia (3), Bermuda (1), Brazil (1), California (3), Canada (2), Connecticut (1), Denmark (1), Dubai (1), England (2), France (3), Germany (1), Hawaii (1), Idaho (1), Illinois (1), Indonesia (1), Japan (1), Kansas (1), Kentucky (1), Massachusetts (4), Michigan (1), Minnesota (4), Mississippi (2), Missouri (1), Nebraska (1), Nevada (1), New Jersey (3), New York (2), North Carolina (1), Ohio (4), Oklahoma (2), Oregon (2), Pennsylvania (2), Russia (1), South Africa (1), Sweden (1), and Texas (5).

Awesome!

Just curious... Does anyone live in a place that would fall in the alphabet after Texas? Like, A is the first letter of the alphabet, and Hey, there are readers in places that start with A. Cool! How about a shout out from the Ukraine? Venezuela? Wales? Washington, D.C. or State? Wyoming? Yoruba? Yonkers? Zaire? We also need a place that starts with L...

But no matter where you're from, I hope you'll join in the fun. Let me know!

**Thanks to guest/unlogged in reviewers ** SweetMelody2232, Jane from North Queensland, Mal, lackofimaginatio, Anonymous Guest Reviewers, Blue Moon, and a person Reading at 3:34 a.m.!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-two<strong>

**"Secrets and Mysteries"**

She was walking in a wintry forest with a deer. Its ears turned this way and that, flicking against the falling snowflakes. Some of the flakes lingered on the lashes of its large, brown eyes, which she thought were the color of rainwater in a wooden bowl. She found a pond. The deer watched as she skated over the ice, cautiously at first, then with more speed and glee. When the ice cracked and black water poured over her feet, the deer opened its mouth, but it wasn't braying in terror; it was laughing. The water drained from the pond, leaving her knee-deep in mud, with lilies sprouting around her. _Help,_ she said, but the deer just lay on the ground, hee-hawing like a gosh-darned donkey. It rolled onto its back and churned its hooves in the air. She threw a handful of mud at the deer and waded out of the muck. The snow had melted. The pond dried up, leaving an opening in the trees, and in this meadow blue hyacinths sprouted and bloomed. The deer was crushing dozens of them as it rolled around. The scent was sweet and real. _Come here, _she said, and the deer scrambled to its feet, wobbled closer, and lay its wet, black nose in her hand.

"Bella?"

Someone was near. Opening or closing her eyes made no difference in the night, but that didn't matter. She was deliciously warm. Her cheek lay on a pillow that smelled like Jacob, and her nose was buried in a spill of black silk. She slipped one hand into into it, looking for the source, and found hot skin and goosebumps beneath her fingertips. Pulling on the heavy strands, she drew them closer to her face. Weight shifted near her, and she found what she wanted: a deeper, warmer place for her nose, beneath the silk and beside the hot column of skin. She felt the vibration of a groan.

"Jesus, God, Bella, are you awake?"

"Pond? Deer pond."

"Fuck me. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."

The warm, inky silk began to slide through her fingers and away. "Noooooo..." she moaned, pulling harder. It was rich and heavy; she buried her face in it and breathed deeply. So beautiful. Some of it she put into her mouth.

She heard a yelp, and a hand closed over hers and pried her fingers apart. When she opened her mouth again, something startlingly cold was thrust into it. Her teeth bit into the crisp sweetness of an apple, and she sat up coughing. Jacob was watching her.

"You were dreaming."

"I was?" She rubbed her hands over her face and eyes. Her nose was stuffy from crying, and she considered wiping it on her coat sleeve, but Jacob found a napkin for her in the bag of apples. After she blew her nose, she crawled into his lap.

He smoothed her hair away from her face, looking into her eyes. Even in the darkness, she could see the concern in his—and another emotion. So much that it was scary to look back at him like that, but she kept her chin up. Kept her eyes open.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For telling me. For trusting me. I didn't know. I didn't know that happened. And I'm sorry if it freaks you out to be in the woods right now."

"No. I'm okay. With you. I might— I might even be okay by myself now."

He brushed his fingers over her forehead and tucked her hair behind her ears. "You're amazing. And I swear to you, that will never happen again."

Laying her head on his chest, she felt the promise in his heartbeat.

"We should probably get back."

The night had grown colder, darker. In response, the stars seemed to shine more brightly. Orion had moved higher in the sky, and she could see the band of the Milky Way. Jacob put the remaining apples and the thermos in one bag and their apple cores in another. She held the pillows for him and an armful of blankets while he dragged the tarp back to the truck bed. It was smart of him, she thought, to bring that so they wouldn't get dew on themselves and so the blankets could stay dry and clean in the back of the truck. "This was beautiful, Jacob," she said. "Thank you."

He was holding the door open for her when something strange happened. The air seemed to change. Her senses tingled, and she flattened herself against the side of the truck bed, her heart racing, as a terrible wind swept through the forest just past the edge of the clearing. The wind shifted, racing past them again on the other side. Jacob stiffened, positioning himself in front of her. "What's that?" he whispered.

The forest crackled, branches snapping, as something huge rushed through it. And again. And again. _Oh, God, no,_ she thought. She clutched the back of Jacob's jacket. And then another, stranger thing happened: Embry ran out of the trees, half dressed, hissing, "What the fuck are you doing here? Get out!"

"Emb?"

"_Get out!_ You idiots!"

The wind swept through the trees. Again and again.

"Is it the bear?" cried Bella.

Embry stared at her.

"It's the bear! Embry, come with us!"

"That is _not _a bear," said Jacob.

Bella and Embry looked at one another in a horrible, wordless communication. Something was out there, she knew. It might be the rabid bear. She had been hoping for weeks that it was a rabid bear. But now she felt, deep in her gut, that it wasn't. She began to tremble all over and pulled on Jacob's arm. "Jacob, take me home. Come with us, Embry, come with us."

"Slacker," came a hard voice from the trees. They turned to see Paul striding across the clearing. He was stark naked. Bella had never seen a naked man or boy before, and even in the dark, she could see more than she wanted. She clapped a hand over her eyes. Somehow, his nudity made everything more terrifying. Embry yelled at him to get away, and Paul's harshness changed to a laugh.

"Ooh, it's a bear!" he said in a high-pitched voice. "Jacob, save me from the bear!" In a harder voice he said, "Come with _us, _Jake. Let's hunt a fucking bear."

"I'm tired of this shit," said Jacob to Paul. "You and me, right now. Let's go."

"God, yes," said Paul. He sank to his knees in the grass and turned his face up to the sky. "Hit me, Jake." It sounded obscene. "Hit me hard. Make me bleed. Hit me, please, yes."

Embry stepped between them, but Jacob pushed him out of the way as Paul rolled in the grass, making an animal-like sound that was somewhere between laughing and crying. With a snarl, he swiped at Jacob's ankles, but Jacob dodged him. Bella had never seen anyone move so fast.

"Embry!" she cried. Her eyes were swimming with panic; she had to hang onto the door to keep from falling. "Embry, is it a bear?"

He seemed to struggle to speak. With tremendous effort, he ground out, _"No." _

Her hands were shaking. Keys, keys. Where were the keys? Her thoughts spun wildly: How could they get out of here? Why were Paul and Embry in the woods? How did he know that it wasn't a bear? Did he know what it _really_ was? How? How?

Jacob kicked Paul in the groin. He was suddenly a vicious stranger. Bella grew more afraid as Paul first curled in on himself in pain, then forced himself to open his limbs to more assault. He bared his throat. She could see his eyes sparkling in the starlight, sparkling with water—with tears. "Please," he wept. "Please, more."

"Bella, help me." Embry had tears in his voice, too. He was pulling on Jacob's arm.

Though she hardly knew why she was doing it, Bella grabbed his other arm. She begged him to take her home. It made Jacob pause. Paul hunched into a ball and wept openly with huge, gasping sobs. Take me home, Jake, Bella kept saying. As he calmed himself, Embry took his shoulders and pressed him against the side of the truck.

"Do you trust me?" he said.

Jacob was breathing heavily, trembling.

_"__Do—you—trust me?"_

At last he nodded.

"Then _leave._"

Bella pushed him into the truck.

"I hate you," wept Paul. "I hate you so much."

Jacob seemed dazed.

"Clear the road!" Embry hollered. He told Bella with hard desperation that she must never, never, do this again. He was depending on her to take care of Jacob. No woods. No Paul. No anger. She didn't understand. She turned the key in the ignition, Embry slapped the side of the truck bed as if it were a horse, and she bumped onto the dirt track.

The logging roads were hard to follow in the dark. Especially since she had been blindfolded when they drove in. Left, Jacob mumbled as they came to intersections in the forest, no road markers except for a trickle of water in streams flowing beside the track or the occasional downed tree. Left, Jacob would mumble. Right. At one point she had to pull over because he thought he might be sick, but the cool air helped. Twice, the horrible wind swept through the forest beside the road.

When they got back to Billy's house, Bella couldn't stop shaking. She parked in the driveway, and she and Jacob held onto one another. We could have died, she kept thinking. And why wouldn't Paul and Embry come away with them? She stifled her tears for Jacob's sake because he was shaking with a different emotion.

"I'm going to fuck him up. Next time I see him. And I'm going to find out what's going on around here. Something really bad. No one's talking, but I'm going to find out."

What about Charlie? she thought. She felt almost positive now that her worst fears were out there. What about Charlie and his investigation? What about Sam and Paul, taking on the work of combing trails for clues? Why was Paul naked in the woods? What did Embry know? How much? And _how? _How did he know? And how could she keep Jacob from finding out? She had a feeling that something terrible would happen if he did. He seemed bursting with nervous energy, alternately queasy and furious. He got out of the truck and slammed its door, and she scrambled out of the cab, too, and tried to pull him into a hug.

"Shh," she said, though she didn't know exactly why she was saying it. "Shh. We're okay."

He said some awful things about Paul. Then Sam. Then his father. It was all connected, he said. And Embry was tangled up in it. He would find out what was going on, he swore, and then he would find a way to extricate his brother.

"Be careful."

"Wait, do _you_ know something?"

"No, I—"

"No secrets," he said. "There's too many around here." With his finger under her chin, he tipped her face up to look directly into her eyes. "Please, I need you. No secrets with us."

She felt suddenly, horribly ashamed. Of course there were secrets. Life-changing secrets. At first she'd kept her silence out of loyalty to the Cullens, and now she felt—it was hard to put it into words—as if she should be silent out of loyalty to Jacob. What good would it serve to pull him into this mess? To frighten him? And what about _her?_ Was it so wrong to wish to be a normal girl again, with friends who weren't affected by supernatural heartbreak? Her eyes watered. She was ashamed and _angry. _Why should she have to make this choice, of keeping secrets from a friend, or terrifying her friend? Why couldn't the past stay in the past?

Jacob was searching her face, and all she could think was, _I just want to be normal again. _He drew in his breath to speak, but the house door opened then and Billy called to them.

"It's eleven o'clock, Bella, and your dad's on the phone."

Charlie! She had forgotten her curfew.

In the kitchen, she got an earful from Charlie over the phone. She had worried him, and he shouldn't have to remind her that she hadn't been feeling well lately and needed to get home to sleep. She apologized. And while she stood there, listening to Charlie's lecture, she felt angry and helpless again: Didn't her father deserve a family that wasn't affected by supernatural terror? Of course he did. Why couldn't this stuff just go away? She turned her face to the wall and smudged away a tear.

Down the hall, Jacob was getting an earful from Billy. Jacob had carried their blankets, pillows, and snacks into the house, and his father was quick to guess where they'd gone. "You fool boy!" He said lots of worse things that made Bella cringe. Jacob slammed the door to his room, but Billy forced it open again to yell at him. It was bad enough that Charlie could hear it.

"You better get out of there," he said.

She didn't like to leave without saying goodbye, but there was no other way. She backed out of the driveway and swung onto the road, but she hadn't gone more than a few hundred yards before she heard a shout behind her. In her rearview mirror, she saw Jacob running. Sliding to a stop in the roadside gravel, she rolled down her window.

"Bells," he panted. He had scissors in his hand.

After all that had happened that night, she almost laughed.

"I know," he panted. "Runs with scissors. I flunked preschool." He leaned on her window frame, catching his breath. Reaching for him, she passed her hand over his forehead to wipe away his perspiration, but she was surprised to feel that he was clammy, instead, with cold. "I think I'm going to be sick," he gasped.

"Breathe."

"Sick."

"Breathe."

"Something's wrong. Bells, something is so wrong." He pulled a thick hank of hair from behind his ear. "Take this," he said, sawing through it with his scissors.

"What? No. Jake, don't cut your hair."

"But you like it. I want you to have it."

"You're upset. This is crazy, stop it."

"Take it, please." He cut off another handful from the underside, in the back, and pressed it into her hands. "Bells, take this with you."

When she finally realized he was crying, she killed the engine and pulled him into the cab with her.

"I'm so scared," he said.

She held him as he tried to calm down, running her hands through his hair. "Jake, you're beautiful. Don't hurt yourself like this."

"I'm scared."

"Come home with me. Charlie won't mind." She thought of how much she'd saved from working at Newton's. A thousand, maybe? "Jake, we can leave town. You just say so, and we can go." It felt desperate to say these things, but she realized that if there were something she could do for him, then she would do it. Anything. "At least come home with me tonight," she pleaded.

After a long while, he wiped his eyes on the hem of his shirt. "I belong here," he said quietly. He gathered the locks of his hair that he'd cut and smoothed then into one long ribbon for her to take home. "So I'll always be with you." He tried to make it sound like a joke, but it didn't feel that way.

Bella reached into her coat pocket. It was still there. "This is for you."

"I'm putting this on my pillow."

"Same. I'll think about you. I'll be hoping you're okay."

They said goodbye. Bella drove home to Forks, and Jacob walked back to the little red house and an angry father. In his pocket, he carried a stretched-out white sock.

* * *

><p>On Thursday morning, Bella woke up and stared at the ceiling.<p>

She couldn't stop thinking about the way the forest had crackled as something—several somethings—rushed through it. Embry and Paul were running around out there, and somebody was going to get killed. She would have to talk to Billy. He'd been so angry last night, but he was nowhere near as scary as what was out there in the woods. She would have to talk to him because he was the only one who knew the truth. Maybe he could help keep Jacob safe. Maybe he could keep Paul and Sam safe by persuading them to quit their work with Charlie. But Embry, somehow, seemed to know the secret. _ How?_ Her mind went over and over the question. At least, she hoped, he'd have the good sense to stay away.

On her pillow, Jacob's hair lay in a glossy black line. She had secured one end of it with a rubber band, and she smoothed its length over her cotton pillowcase. It was more than a foot long. It must have taken him forever to grow this, maybe all his life. She thought of how it swung behind him when he ran, and how it spilled over his shoulders and swept the pages of the books he read. He was right; she did like it. She hated to think of him with ragged patches near the back of his neck. It was a mad impulse; he'd been so upset. Now the only thing she could do was imagine him, think of him, and hope that he'd slept well. She carefully placed his hair in a drawer in her bedside table.

Downstairs, Charlie poured her a bowl of cereal. He made some scrambled eggs, too, and urged her to eat them. It was hard. Her stomach was all knotted up.

"Dad? Are you working in the office today?"

"Not sure yet."

"You think you could stay in town? No hiking?"

Charlie put down his spatula and turned from the stove. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

She looked at her cereal. Everything was rushing together. All her secrets, all of La Push's mysteries, her father's work, Jacob's fear... Something was going to happen. Something big.

"I'm not hungry anymore," she said, but her father stood over her until she finished every bite.

At school she had the same feeling. Mike stared at the back of Jessica's head all through history class. He was tense, irritable. Angela, too, was tense, wondering what Quil would say when they all went to the movies tomorrow. It was hard for Bella to stay calm while she listened to her friend worry about what to wear. Especially what to wear to see _Quil, _for Pete's sake. She almost snapped that Angela could wear a paper bag on her head and still look gorgeous to him. Mrs. Kranz droned on and on, and Bella stared out the window, thinking about the woods.

After school she stood in the parking lot, staring more. People were laughing, getting into their cars. Teachers walked to the staff lot with shoulder bags holding their laptops and papers to grade. The sky was gray, the light was cool, and the colors she saw seemed more intense in the bleak landscape of cloud cover and asphalt: green and gold letterman's jackets, a black and white soccer ball kicked over the sidewalk, a blur of blue, brown, tan, and green coats and hats, and someone's little red Honda Civic, sitting at the edge of the lot with its turn signal blinking.

These people have no idea, she thought. No idea what's out there. She felt like a pin stuck in the center of a wheeling map, while the continents and oceans swirled around her.

"Old folks tonight?" said Angela. She was walking toward her car. "Want me to pick you up after dinner?"

"Uh, sure." Bella had to force herself to refocus her gaze. "Could you pick me up at the station? I think I'll go see Charlie."

She watched Angela drive away. It occurred to her that _Angela_ could get killed; anyone in this town could get killed. She had spent weeks wishing that whatever killed that hiker had moved on, but now there was a second hiker almost certainly dead—whose bones, she grimaced, might never be found—and last night, the veil she'd been longing to wear had been ripped away. _Not Angela, please, not Angela,_ she thought. And then, _Not Charlie. Not Jacob. Not Seth, not Leah, not... Not anyone._

They were all helpless. Why hadn't the vampire moved on? Weren't they nomadic? For a moment she wondered if it could be a Cullen, but she knew that A) they didn't shred hikers, B) they could waltz into town and resume their seemingly ordinary relationships with others, and C) they weren't interested in her anymore.

_What if they did come back,_ she wondered. _Would I want to see them?_

No.

She stood still in the parking lot as others moved around her, and she thought, _NO, I would NOT like to see them. _They had nearly killed her—slowly and indirectly, but no less brutally. They had shifted her existence into a lonely place. What good was it to have the knowledge she and Billy shared?

Well, maybe there _was_ some good that could come from it. Billy seemed intent on keeping Jacob out of the woods, so Bella would so the same for Charlie.

At home, she prepared a picnic dinner. An office picnic. She made roast beef sandwiches and packed tortilla chips and salsa in a bag. And she made some iced tea. Not her best meal plan, but it was portable. Then she telephoned Jacob.

Jake said he was feeling all right. Exhausted from last night, but mostly okay. When he got home from school, he saw that Billy had left a note about a council meeting; he'd be gone all evening. Good riddance, said Jacob. He planned on dinner with Quil, and in the meantime he would work on the Rabbit. He'd been working all week with Embry's gifts, and he thought he could finish it.

"I mean, I could really, truly finish it today. Drive it tomorrow."

"Wow, that's great." She told him about her plan to go to the movies with Mike, Quil, and Angela. _Of course,_ he would like to come, he said. And it could be the Rabbit's maiden voyage. Then she told him about Angela and Quil.

"Huh?"

"She likes him."

"Huh?"

"I know. Can you help?" The problem was that Quil didn't get it. He had called her "bro" and "dude."

"Well, I know he was really thankful that he could buy the van. But he didn't mention Angela. He just talked about how cool her dad was."

"Angela says she doesn't know how to flirt. Why don't you just tell him?"

Jacob snorted. "Oh, hell, no. You mean a pretty, smart, nice girl—with a family that likes him—is standing at his door, and he can't hear the doorbell? This is my new favorite TV show. I'm just going to sit back and watch."

"Thanks a lot."

They talked a little more about the Rabbit, and she told him she was going to take dinner to Charlie at the station. At least, she _hoped_ he was at the station right now.

"Jake?" How could she say this without saying too much? "Jake, I think something bad is going to happen. Don't go in the woods."

"What do you know? If you know something, tell me."

"I just— I have a bad feeling."

He was silent.

* * *

><p>She trudged to the station. It was only five blocks, but every step felt painful. How could she do the right thing?<p>

_Jake, I think there's a vampire in the woods. Whoops. Didn't mean to make your head explode. Let's back up. _

_Hey, wouldn't it be cool if unicorns were real? I would totally want one for a pet. And what if—I'm just making this up here—what if vampires were real? I would totally not want one for an ex-boyfriend._

_Uh, Jake? You know that show, _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_? Crazy, right? Well, sometimes... What if there were no Slayers? Would you want to know what was out there? I mean, if you could die, would you want to see it coming?_

What was she going to do?

The Forks Police Station was a small, brown, brick building on the north end of town. An American flag and the green state flag of Washington hung from poles on the lawn. She felt vaguely guilty staring up at the profile of George Washington, flapping in the mist. _YOU figure it out, George._

Charlie was glad to see her. He pushed aside some folders and pulled a chair from the lobby into his office. Bella hadn't spent much time in here. Except for the small gated room that he called "the tank," which probably hadn't hosted anybody in decades, it looked like most other offices. On his desk were four pictures of extremely large fish he'd caught with Harry and one of Bella. _At least I made the cut, _she thought. On the wall were framed certificates: his Forks High diploma, his A.A. degree in criminal justice from Peninsula College, and his diploma from the police academy in Tacoma. A few more documents indicated certifications in health and safety and weapons training. It was impressive, and she was proud of him, but it made her stomach feel hollow because ultimately, it was useless.

"You okay, Bells? You look a little green."

Through dinner he did nothing but watch her. He tried to act like he was not watching her, but she wasn't fooled. She kept thinking of him walking through the forest, along the Hoh River, with his nose to the ground. Then her face would feel hot, and she'd take a drink of her iced tea to cool down.

"I like this salsa," said Charlie. "This new at the Thriftway?"

"Yeah. I hadn't seen it there before. Bought it last week."

"Hmm. Tasty."

Across the hall, Matt Hathaway and Steve Dorsic were drinking coffee and looking at a map. On Steve's desk, there was a wedding photo of him and his new wife. Her dress was beautiful, with white lace over the bodice and sleeves. She held a bouquet of pink and red roses with pink ribbons trailing from it. Steve had one hand around her waist and one hand under the pink ribbons, helping hold the bouquet. They looked so happy.

"Maybe you should call it off," said Bella suddenly.

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

"The search for that hiker, you know. He's probably not going to be found."

"Because?"

"It's just been a long time."

He dipped another tortilla chip into the salsa. "Really spicy. Jalapeño? Habanero?"

"There could be a bear out there. A big one."

"Hey, Matt. You got any reports of a bear? A very big one?"

Charlie's deputy crossed the hall and passed him a file. _"Huge gray bear," _Charlie read. _"Spotted February 6 in the Queets River Valley. Ran across the river, approximately one a.m. Estimated size, eight feet long. Five feet high. Long tail. Witnesses, itinerant campers. Internal office notes: Witnesses exhibited signs of heavy marijuana consumption. No warrant to search vehicle." _

"See? Don't go out there."

"Bella, if there's something you're not telling me, now would be the time to tell me."

This dinner was going terribly. She had simply wanted to see him, sit next to him. She wanted to know that he was safe in town. Now he leaned back in his chair, tossed a corner of a tortilla chip high into the air, and caught it in his mouth as if it were a piece of popcorn.

"You see that, Steve?"

"You still got it, Chief."

He turned to Bella and his smile dropped. "You know what else I got? I got a lot of people in this town to take care of. Sam Uley wants me to stay out of the woods, too. He's pretty bossy for a young man. Why do you think he'd say that?"

She mumbled that she didn't know, and Charlie dipped another chip into the jar of salsa. "There's a gut feeling, and then there's a label. Hunches, and evidence. I think these are habaneros in here. Am I right?"

He made her read the label. He was right.

* * *

><p>Thankfully, Angela arrived to save her from this mess. Bella rode with her across town in her little Corolla. Olympic Acres was quiet when they arrived.<p>

Angela said she was going to share her essay with Albertine. It was complete and looking pretty good, and Albertine had requested a copy to share with her grandchildren. Bella didn't need to be reminded how important Albertine thought it was for young people to know their family history. She wondered vaguely if she ought to ask Charlie to tell her more about his parents, but the idea seemed almost silly. _ Why do that when I could die at any moment? Why eat? Why get dressed in the morning?_ She followed Angela down the hall to Albertine and Vera's room, feeling jittery.

Vera was asleep. Again.

Bella sat there, listening to Albertine enjoy Angela's essay. She looked at her notes for her own essay, and there weren't very many of them. Should she care about this? _Why do homework when I could die at any moment? _Of course, the essay was due tomorrow, she would probably be around tomorrow, and she would hopefully be around a year from now, either living in Charlie's house and working at Newton's, or attending college in Olympia. Mrs. Kranz would recommend her for that scholarship, but first she had to turn in something amazing. Tomorrow.

The sparkly crystal animals on Vera's table made her feel awful. And angry. And sleepy. And angry again. The more she looked at them, the stranger she felt.

One vampire had broken her heart and left her in a depression that nearly negated her chances of going to college. Now another one in the woods was going to scare her into immobility. She didn't want that to happen. Did she? No? Yes? No?

She looked at the sparkly animals.

_Stupid sparkly animals!_

She looked at Vera.

_Sad, wrinkly old woman!_

And she looked at herself. Her reflection in the glass dome over the animals was misshapen. It was hard to concentrate on her image because of the crystal objects behind it, but the things she noticed most were her eyes. She looked scared.

There was almost nothing in her notebook.

Vera was asleep.

Mrs. Kranz deserved an essay.

No, Bella Swan deserved an essay.

_Or maybe I should just stare at these animals more... _

No. With effort, she tore her gaze away. Bella Swan deserved an essay.

She murmured to Angela that she would be right back. Then, shoving her backpack along the floor in front of her with one foot, she slid across the hall and knocked on a different door.

Mr. Horowitz had been expecting her. He seemed eager to see her, in fact, and urged her to come quickly into his room. When he shut the door behind her, the first thing he said was, in a hissing whisper, "I am not insane!"

His room was very different from the old ladies'. The first thing she noticed was the pungent, sharp scent of old tobacco. Though he was not smoking it now, it was clear that he smoked a pipe often. Next she noticed the windows. He kept them covered with heavy curtains in a rich, wine red velvet. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

There was a plush oriental carpet on the floor, woven with shades of cream, red, black, and gold. Having no roommate, he had more space for his belongings, and every wall was lined with tall, dark shelves packed with books, magazines, newspapers, accordion file folders, photo boxes, leather-bound albums, and shoeboxes, which held, she guessed, anything but shoes. He had a heavy, antique wooden desk, topped with dozens of pigeon holes, and in the pigeon holes were curled papers, pens, letter openers, postage stamps, tea cups, a magnifying glass, tiny framed photos, and a pocket watch with a long, gold chain spilling onto a square of dark green felt over the writing surface.

"Sit down, sit down," he said, urging her toward the desk's chair. It was upholstered in golden brown velvet.

Mr. Horowitz—Reggie, he reminded her—was dressed in a gray wool sweater and faded black slacks that had once been part of a well-made suit. His hands were dry and wrinkled, with blue veins bulging under his yellowish skin, and his fingernails were short, thick, and ridged. His white hair was combed neatly back from his forehead, but his whiskers were untidy. It had probably been several days since he'd had a decent shave.

Bella watched as he rolled his wheelchair to his bookcases. He selected two of the leather-bound albums and set them on the desk in front of her.

"I was a newspaperman," he said proudly. "It's damned hard to work in the timber industry once your back is broken, but writing was something my body could do. And I was good at it."

Opening one of the albums with care, he showed her clippings of his work, articles from the _Hoquiam Herald, _the _Forks Forum, _the Aberdeen _Daily World, _and the _Olympian._ His career spanned six decades before his retirement from the _Daily World _in 1997. He had covered everything: sports, obituaries, politics, arts and entertainment, local festivals, crime, and economics. He had even, during the seventies and eighties, written an editorial column on tourism for the _Peninsula Daily News._

"Who, what, when, where, why, and how," he said. "You want to be a writer? That's where you start."

Bella blinked at him.

"Alison. My niece. She says you want to be a writer."

"Oh!" She realized he was talking about her history teacher. "Yes. There's a scholarship I'm going to apply for. I don't know if I want to be a writer exactly, but she says I'm good at it."

"Do _you_ think you're good at it?"

Bella had not considered this.

"If you want to succeed, you need guts. Persistence. The ability to meet deadlines. And talent. You need to sound like a person on the page, not like an encyclopedia. You need a voice. Alison says you can do this."

"I can?"

"Yes, dummy." He closed his album and rolled to the shelf to put it away, muttering about how he'd never want to be a high school teacher. At the window, he pulled a cord to move the heavy curtains aside. The moon had risen. In the early evening, it barely cleared the pine tops, and the trees in close perspective made it seem enormous. "Do you think you're good at this?" he asked again. "Do you want to write?"

"Yes." She opened her backpack and took out her notebook. In it, she had sketched the barest details of Vera's life after the Great Depression: the deaths of her mother and baby brother, her father's death from pneumonia in the lumber camps, her inability to live on her own for long, and her solitary years in the back bindery of a library. "Yes. I mean, at least I want to do well on this essay."

"The essay," he muttered. "Who, what, when, where, why, and how. That's where the story is. Get your pencil, girlie, because this is a good one."

He narrowed his eyes. It was the look that made Albertine call him crazy. Bella began to feel uneasy, remembering what he'd said when Vera had played the piano. _Cold, hard facts._ And she remembered what she had thought for a moment there. An incredible coincidence. Edward's lullaby was simply an old song from the thirties. But then she had gone home, and she had wondered if it was possible that Edward... and Edgar... They had the same home town. They were sons of a wealthy doctor. They played the same song. They left their girlfriends miserable...

_Cold, hard facts._

Impossible. She told herself this was impossible.

"There are things no one can explain," said Mr. Horowitz. "Even me, and I've investigated, oh, I have. In school I organized the yearbook committee. Long time ago. But I remember everything."

He talked to her about Bertram. What about Vera? she asked, but Mr. Horowitz said that Vera's story was largely Bertram's story. Bertram had been a pianist. A very good one. He performed in school programs, churches, and town festivals. He won awards. Before the Depression hit, his family had hoped to send him to the University of Washington to study music.

"His hands were so beautiful. Long, slender fingers. Tender and sensitive. But a strength was there, too."

Bertram was a jewel. A blushing, shy, generous jewel. After school he taught piano lessons to children. They would come to the Moss family's home and play piano in the parlor. When the Depression hit and families couldn't pay for indulgences like music, he gave the lessons for free. He gave those kids joy. Mr. Horowitz often went there to listen to him, and that was when he first started to notice Edgar Culpepper. He, too, would come to the Mosses' home to listen to Bertram. In the spring, when the weather was warmer, they'd open the windows and he and Vera would sit outside on the porch swing, enjoying the music, whispering together, rocking softly in the evening air.

"Culpepper played, too. Bertram would learn his songs. He had a photographic memory, at least where music was concerned. He'd hear a song once and copy it. He'd embellish it. He played everything better."

This, he said, was the beginning of an antagonism between the two young men. Edgar would stare at Bertram as if he could hardly believe his skill. And Bertram would stare at Edgar, thinking there was something different about him. Bertram wanted him to stay away from his sister, but this only made Vera's attachment stronger.

"And there was a third person involved. A big Indian. He was older than us, maybe close to thirty years old. No one knew him. He came from up north. Some said he was a bum. Others said he was a chief. He'd follow Vera home from school. You can believe this got Culpepper's goat. Everywhere Vera and Edgar went, he'd be there, watching. It was like he was keeping an eye on things. Vera's father tried to run him off. There was something strange about him, too. Why was he there?"

"I don't know."

"Who, what, when, where, why... That's part of the story. The why is missing. And the how."

Bertram had confided in Reginald Horowitz. The family business was failing. Mr. Moss would probably have to close the dry goods store in spring, and it was breaking Bertram's heart. He would drop out of school and be sent to the logging camps, and of course he would go to feed his family, but it meant the end of his music plans. He cried. Only Reginald knew this. He cried and he felt abominably selfish for his grief when the family was hungry.

Meanwhile, Vera and Edgar had become engaged. Mr. and Mrs. Moss weren't sure what to do. If they opposed the engagement, would Vera run away with him? If Vera were married, would she move in with the Culpeppers and be one less mouth to feed? Also, would the Culpeppers help Vera's family financially? Little Milton, the baby, was far too thin.

"You're not writing this down, girlie!" snapped Mr. Horowitz. She had been too spellbound to write. Now she hastily scribbled some notes as Mr. Horowitz opened his second leather-bound album. It was full of black and white photographs.

"This is Bertram," he said. "And me."

Bella saw two handsome young men on the steps of a shop. Hoquiam Hardware and Mercantile, said the sign. Bertram and Reginald had their arms around each other's shoulders. Reginald's hair was dark and straight; Bertram's was fairer and slightly wavy. His eyes were clear and bright. Both of them wore cardigan sweaters with a big H embroidered on the pocket, for Hoquiam High, she guessed.

"I loved him." Mr. Horowitz touched the corner of the photograph. "I never loved anyone else. When he went to the camps, I went with him."

Strangely, Edgar Culpepper joined the logging team, too. This was just another _why_ in the story. He certainly didn't need the money. And the Indian joined. He wasn't wanted. It wasn't like today, Mr. Horowitz tried to explain. Indians were treated badly back then. No one would talk to that Indian; no one even asked his name, but he worked just as hard as the others. Maybe harder.

"Bertram and I sent money to our families. It made him happier to know he was helping. But the days were cold and wet. The nights were the same. I wanted to hold him, but neither of us felt like getting beat up, maybe killed. That was another thing. How people like us were treated. Not like today."

On the day that Bertram broke three fingers in his right hand, the two of them slipped away at night. Bertram was ready to give up. He was white as a ghost. Nothing mattered anymore, he said. All his hopes were gone. It was then that he began to talk about his suspicions of Edgar.

"He told me things that he hadn't said to anyone. Things that are still hard to believe. But that's what makes me crazy, eh, girl? I believe them."

"What things?"

"Things." He was flipping through the album, looking for certain photos. "Things."

He showed her a photo of Vera. Bella was surprised. In the photo, Vera was grinning broadly. She wore a light cotton dress with a pleated hem, lace around her sleeves, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her long wavy hair fell over her shoulders in a thick cascade. Beside her was another young woman holding her hand. Albertine.

"And here's our yearbook," said Mr. Horowitz, reaching for it on another shelf. "I was the editor. We took the photos in January, so Vera and her brother are both in here."

Bella held the book on her lap. The pages were brittle, and she turned them carefully. There they were, the Moss siblings, in the senior and junior classes. More smiles.

"And here," he said, "is Edgar Culpepper."

Bella saw a blank square. _No photo available_, it was stamped.

"And here," he added, "is his sister, Rosemary."

_No photo available._

Bella's pulse increased. "Why aren't they there?"

"The yearbook office was vandalized on the day that family left town. An odd coincidence, don't you think?"

Bella didn't understand. Mr. Horowitz turned the pages of the yearbook. Every student group they had joined was missing a photo. The Hoquiam Hummingbirds Glee Club. The Future Housewives of America. Rosemary, he said, was another piece of the puzzle.

"Something was wrong with her." She was the most beautiful girl in town, but cold, nervous. Never able to relax. Something must have happened to her, he said. Bertram could sense it. He was good at that kind of thing, at reading people's feelings. Something terrible had happened, involving a man. "You know."

Bella nodded. It was frightening.

"Well, that's what Bertram thought. Especially after the vice principal made a pass at her. Grabbed her in the hall. She spun around and dislocated his elbow."

_Yikes._

A lot of things happened at once after that. Bertram wrapped his broken fingers in a length of thick, hard canvas and slogged on, but he was dead inside. An infection made his fever spike, and he began to babble things that made no sense.

"Except to me," said Mr. Horowitz.

Culpepper began to follow him around, wanting to know what Bertram had said. "He used to stare at me so hard, his face all screwed up with the effort. He'd stare and stare, and then he'd say, 'Penny for your thoughts.' Only me. Everyone else he stared through."

Bella began to feel cold all over.

Then the vice principal was found dead in the woods, apparently mauled by a bear. Only later did Reginald learn that it was on the same day as the logging accident. As for the logging accident itself, Bella had already learned about that, hadn't she? Mr. Horowitz asked her what she knew.

It took her a moment to get her throat working. "Um," she managed. "Um, a big tree fell on Bertram. It was almost sawed through, ready to fall, but it fell too soon in an unexpected direction. And a truck overturned on you."

"Yes. Broke my spine. But that tree fell exactly as he intended it."

"Who?"

"Culpepper."

_No... Edward wouldn't... I mean, EDGAR wouldn't... _Bella's eyes filled with tears. Why was she having these confused thoughts?

"Bertram said the word," continued Mr. Horowitz. "There were deer in the woods, and elk, drained bloodless. What kind of animal could do that? Culpepper's eyes changed color. Bertram noticed little things like that. And one day he said the word, the word of his suspicions, and Culpepper panicked. I can't say for sure what he was thinking, but the look on his face was a look of panic. You ever feel panicked?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Culpepper panicked and the tree fell, _somehow, _on a lot of us. Eight men were injured, including me. Bertram was crushed, and he lay gasping. Culpepper ran away through the woods. On the same day, the vice-principal died, the yearbook office was vandalized, all those Culpeppers left town, and the Indian was jailed."

"Jailed?"

"He was found near the body of the principal. And he _wasn't_ with the logging team. I've always had a feeling things would have been different if he had been there."

Mr. Horowitz described the effort to free Bertram from the tree. It had taken hours of digging to create a tunnel beneath it. The moss on the mountainside, and the sliding mud beneath it, were so deep and thick that it was impossible to bring a truck off the road. Something with a winch would have helped. Men sawed through branches as thick as their own bodies to get close enough to make any sort of dent in the earth, and they first brushed the hemlock needles—a slurry of them had fallen with the tree—from Bertram's face so he could breathe. At sundown, they carried him to the camp.

"I held his hand," said Reginald. "I held his hand for six days."

Bella had long ago stopped taking notes. She could hardly breathe. A tear rolled down her face and Mr. Horowitz said, with startling passion, "Yes. _Feel _something."

Now here, he said, was the summation of a newsman's seventy-year-old mystery.

Who: The Culpeppers

What: Logging accident. Vice principal found dead. The yearbook office vandalized.

When: June of 1936

Where: Hoquiam, Washington, and the Upper Quinault Valley

Why: Unknown.

How: Unknown.

That was too many unknowns. What were they hiding? He feared that Bertram had discovered their secret.

"And you, girlie." Mr. Horowitz leaned closer. "You know it, too."

"I do?"

"I saw you with him. Last year. Vera, Albertine, and me, we're the only ones left. Those two don't leave this building very often, but I get out. I was at the post office, and I saw you with him."

"With him?"

"Culpepper."

Bella's stomach felt hollow. The pain snarled to life inside her. "No," she said. "No. No. No. No. No."

"Eventually, the Indian was released. No evidence. Vera collapsed. Her family came apart. Me, I came apart for a while. But then I found this." He paged through the photo album. His eyes were sparking. "They didn't know I had this. _I_ didn't know I had this; I thought it was lost. But after they were gone, I found one roll of film..."

In the back of the album were photographs he'd taken at school. A homecoming dance. A basketball game. And yearbook photos. Sitting stiffly, with uncomfortable approximations at smiles, were Edgar and Rosemary Culpepper. They were beautiful. They were...

They were...

Bella slid from her chair. She missed the plush carpet when she fell, instead hitting her head on the side of the desk. Her world went black.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading<strong>.

Oh, horrors! What do you think about these things?

1. Jacob's tears after their escape from the meadow?

2. Bella's decision not to tell Jacob or Charlie about vampires?

3. Charlie's odd questions during dinner?

4. Mr. Horowitz's description of the accident? His characterization of Bertram? What about the big Indian? The death of the vice principal? Edgar Culpepper's panic? The Culpeppers' decision to leave town?

I tried to make Vera's past more complicated than simply right & wrong or good & bad. Please let me know what you think.

Oooooh, I hope this chapter was fun for you to read. I can hardly wait to hear from you! Please review! ** Previews** to reviewers….. Only two chapters left!

Oh, and where are you from?


	33. Chapter 33 Rescue Attempt

**Updated roll call: Join in! ** Readers are from Abu Dhabi (1), Aruba (1), Australia (4), Bermuda (1), Brazil (1), California (3), Canada (2), Chile (1), Connecticut (1), Denmark (1), Dubai (1), England (3), France (3), Germany (1), Hawaii (1), Hungary (1), Idaho (1), Illinois (1), Indonesia (1), Japan (1), Kansas (1), Kentucky (1), Massachusetts (4), Michigan (1), Minnesota (4), Mississippi (2), Missouri (1), Nebraska (1), Nevada (1), New Jersey (3), New York (2), North Carolina (1), Ohio (4), Oklahoma (2), Oregon (2), Pennsylvania (2), Russia (1), South Africa (1), Sweden (1), Texas (5), and Washington, D.C. (1).

Thanks to guest/un-logged in reviewers Blue Moon, anonymous, nothinwrong2013, mcschmidt, Jane, a Guest from Kent, the Garden of England (cool!), and other guests.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-three<strong>

**"Rescue Attempt"**

She heard the sound of the rain on the road. Tires swished quietly through the streets. Her cheek lay on light beige vinyl, and her body rocked with the turns.

"Bella?"

Someone was calling her name.

"Bella, can you hear me? I'm taking you home."

Bella heard a sound like a moan. She wasn't sure if she were making it, or if it were coming from somewhere else. After a while, her body felt a change in motion, a slowing down, and then she heard the sound of gravel beneath the tires. A parking break rasped into place, and the voice came back.

"Bella, can you walk?"

The voice seemed unhappy. Panicky.

_You ever feel panicked?_

Bella's pulse jumped, then slowed.

"Bella, where are your keys?"

She heard a zipper slide open and hands rustle through papers, pens, and books. A backpack? The voice was cursing. She heard a door open, and cold air floated over her body. Shivering, she curled into a ball.

"Bella, try to walk. Please try."

A girl's warm hands pulled on her arms. Was she upright? Something had rotated. She felt gravel beneath her shoes. Then wood, a hollow sound. She leaned on a wall, but it moved, and she wondered if had been a door. Had it been a door this whole time? How long had she leaned on it? A few seconds? Forever?

"Okay, you're home now. You're home. Sit here."

Hands pulled her toward something soft. Her eyes opened for a moment. She saw green upholstery. Then a coffee table. Then a blue rug. The rug was better than the couch. She put her face on it.

"Bella, I think you have the flu. Or something worse. Can you say something?"

She heard a humming sound. Who made that?

"Where's the phone book? I'll call your dad."

The rug smelled like dust and wool. When she opened her eyes she saw blue. When she closed them she saw black. Black seemed better. Someone was murmuring in another room. These were the words she heard: "Mr. Swan. Bella. Sick." Then a pause, the clicking of the rotary dial, and more words: "Mom? I need help. Mom, I'm scared."

Why was she so cold? Cold was a good word.

"Cold."

Had she made that sound?

"Cold."

A soft, fuzzy thing was tucked around her. "Do you want a pillow?"

"Cold."

After a while, another voice came near. A woman's voice. She felt a hand on her forehead. There were several words, but she couldn't count them all.

"No fever. Chills. Floor. Bed."

Hands. All over her. She pushed at them. She heard a wordless cry that sounded like it came from deep, deep inside her. The hands held tighter, and then she was moving.

Her shoes came off. How had that happened? She smelled the scent of her own bed, her pillow with its faint odor of shampoo. Heavy quilts pressed on her. Safe? Danger?

"Mom, what's wrong with her?"

"I don't know. You called Chief Swan?"

_Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump._ Boots on wood. Fast.

"Bella? Bella?"

Why wouldn't people stop saying that?

She moved in a forest with a deer. Something was chasing them. They couldn't run fast enough.

There was a tree. It had low branches that spread over the ground, making a tent around the trunk. This tent was a good house.

There was a moon. Then it was gone. There was no moon. There were no stars. There were many sounds, not her. Frogs and insects and crackling branches. Leaves rustling. A herd of elk, chuffing so near. The thick, hot scent of their bodies. Musk. Urine.

Blood. There was blood on the moss.

"Delirious." This was a new voice. A man's voice. "Drug abuse?"

"No. No, she never—"

"Body temperature too low. Hot water bottles. Electric blanket?"

Hands on her face. Pulling at her eyes. A glaring light: white, yellow, and orange.

"No," she moaned. That time, she was sure the sound came from herself.

"Pupils dilating symmetrically, normally. No sign of seizure. Possibly a virus. Could do blood cultures, but you'd have to move her downtown, and the lab results could take twelve to twenty-four hours."

"Should we move her?"

"Maybe not. Monitor. Call me. Any time of night."

"Will she be okay?" The girl's voice again.

Heat. At her toes. On her chest. All over. She slid from her mind.

* * *

><p>Night. A streetlamp outside the window. A glowing, distant orb behind white curtains. The weight of blankets, warmth. Hands. Her own? Hands on face. Moisture beneath the hands, perspiration sliding over her forehead as the hands moved.<p>

"Bella? It's me. Can you open your eyes?"

She thought her eyes were already open.

"Maybe you're too hot. Do you feel too hot?"

"Hot." She was pretty sure she made that word.

"Okay." Blankets shifted. Cool air on her neck. Then her feet. "Do you need to get up? Go to the bathroom? Are you hungry?"

Bathroom. That sounded like a good idea.

"Let me help you sit up."

Firm, large hands under her arms. Her body moving from beneath the blankets. Her feet, dead weight, hung to the floor. Slick, polished hardwood met her toes. A nice feeling. Hands moving through her hair, along her jaw. Hands holding her cheeks. Thumbs on her eyes.

"Bella, I need you to wake up."

_Charlie._

"Drink this."

A glass at her lips. Fresh water. The motion of her throat. Something cool and clean inside her.

"Bella, open your eyes."

Her eyes were made of sand. Thumbs dabbed water on them. She felt her eyelashes fan beneath the thumbs, water seeping through the tiny hairs. More coolness. Her spirit lifted. Her mind rose from a deep, low place. She inhaled the scent of skin, hair. Old coffee. Her eyes opened for real.

So much! She saw her room, a tangle of blankets on her bed. Blue, pink, and green stars quilted together. The lights were on. She saw her grandmother's photo. Charlie sat beside her, an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, thank God," he said.

Charlie's hair was a mess, damp with sweat, standing up all over his head. His eyes were red and his skin was ash white.

"Are you okay?" she said. "You look awful. Did something happen?"

He made a strangled bark of a laugh. "_YOU,_" he said. "Jesus, Bella, what happened to _you_? Did you faint? Are you in pain? Are you nauseated? Did you eat something unsafe?"

"I need to pee."

With a hand at her elbow, Charlie walked her across the hall. She closed the bathroom door behind her. When she finished using the toilet, she washed her hands and looked in the mirror above the sink. Her face looked waxy. Suddenly it was hard to focus her eyes; she saw her reflection waver as if she were looking at herself through six feet of water. Her chin cracked the edge of the sink when she fell.

* * *

><p>Time passed. She knew this because her mind felt exhausted. Above her, a white supernova of a light threatened to make her eyes explode.<p>

"Psychological."

It was the voice she had heard earlier, in her room. She felt a sharp sting on her jaw.

"Deep, deep bruising, but no break. No laceration. This hydrocortisone injection should lessen the swelling."

"Psychological?"

"Charlie, I hate to say it. I don't think it's fainting after all. No sign of seizure or a virus or any physical trauma. This is like when we found her in the woods last fall. Some terrible shock must have occurred."

Bella felt warm arms lift her. Her body sagged like wet spaghetti. The thought made her laugh, but only a choking vibration moved through her chest. The body that clutched hers was vibrating, too, but for some other reason.

* * *

><p>It was five a.m.<p>

Charlie told her, so she knew it was true.

"It's five a.m.," he said. He said some other things, too. Something about going to sleep and how he'd be back in a couple hours. "You sleep, too," he said.

Wasn't she already sleeping?

"Close your eyes, honey."

Weren't they already closed? She moved her eyelids, and this seemed to satisfy Charlie. He pushed her shoulder till she lay down. There was her pillow. And her quilts. He tucked them around her.

When he was gone she opened her eyes again. She slid from her bed and crawled across the floor until she found a spot she liked. It pulled at her. There she lay down and closed her eyes again. She felt happy. She felt sick. She felt that her heart was dissolving. She felt lost, frightened, angry. Then she felt nothing.

* * *

><p>When she opened her eyes again, she was at the kitchen table. It was a clear, sunny day. Her hair was freshly washed and she was wearing clean jeans, her soft, lavender sweater, and fuzzy socks. She couldn't remember taking a shower, but she figured it must have happened. Her stomach was growling. Had she skipped dinner? She couldn't remember. Charlie was making bacon and eggs. He looked terrible. Suddenly she did remember something.<p>

"Crap, my essay is due today."

"You're not going to school."

Charlie slid some scrambled eggs onto a plate beside three strips of bacon and a piece of buttered toast. He was dressed in his black uniform, his handgun already secured to his side in its holster, and his gold chief's badge pinned in place over his left breast. He prepared another plate for himself and sat beside her.

Bella put a little salt and pepper on her eggs.

"It's nearly noon," said Charlie. "I wanted to let you sleep. But I found you on the floor again. Dr. Gerandy says you're not fainting. What's going on?"

"I'm okay?"

"You're not. Is this about Edward?"

Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. Then her chest felt constricted. Everything Mr. Horowitz had said came rushing back to her, and she saw once again the pictures of Edgar and Rosemary Culpepper.

"Edward!" she gasped. "He killed someone!"

"What?"

"It was a long time ago."

Charlie's mouth was hanging open.

"He didn't love me. He loved someone else. There was a tree. Her brother. A piano."

"A piano?"

"A yearbook. A wedding dress. There was a hungry little baby."

"You're not making any sense."

"Edward," she said, and the tears poured down her face.

Charlie swore. "He killed _you,_ Bella. He's still killing you. And this is killing me." Please, he said, please don't let that worthless boy put you back into a hole. "Bella, I need you to hang on."

"It was a logging accident!" She put her hands over her mouth to muffle her sobbing.

Charlie prodded her to walk to the couch.

"Lie here," he said. "Do not sleep in your room. I've called the school. You're officially absent. Your history teacher said your essay is due on the second day after you return to school, whether that's Monday or Tuesday, or whenever. Do not try to do homework." He was tucking blankets around her. Already she was starting to shiver. "Eat something if you can. And please don't worry about Edward. You've been doing so well, Bella. I love my girl. Please, don't let this bring you down."

She tried to nod because she thought that was what he wanted.

"I have to go to work. I hate to go, but that second hiker was found. Torn into a thousand pieces and strewn along the upper Hoh River Trail like confetti."

"Oh, God!"

"Sam found him. Found him early this morning. I'm going downtown to prepare for evidence collecting. We need photos, plaster casts of footprints, biohazard bags, measurements, and some way to try to date the time of death."

"Don't go out there!"

"That's what Sam said, too. And you know what? I'm going to listen to him. I'm going to train him on the collection procedures, send him out there, and focus on breaking the news to that poor man's family."

Bella was trembling all over.

"Then I'm going to focus on Sam. That young man is trying to do too much, and he's coming apart. Couldn't hardly speak to me on the phone. Flies and human rot, Bella. We're going to need dental records for a one hundred percent positive identification, but Sam says he doesn't know if he can find all the teeth."

She felt sick.

"And you know what Sam needs? He needs help. He needs an adult to fix his mind, Bella; he's been shaking like a Vietnam Vet."

Charlie sat on the coffee table, leaning toward her with his elbows on his knees. His eyes were glistening.

"Do you know how much it hurts to send a young man into the woods with a job like that? It's not right. But he knows more than I do. And he's hiding something. I'm waiting for him to slip up. Now you tell me that Edward killed someone?"

"Not this someone."

"You think about this, Bella." He got up and put on his uniform parka. "Two things. One: Don't let me lose you again. Two: You better start talking."

* * *

><p>Her next hours were filled with misery and panic. Edward had killed someone. His words came back to her.<p>

_What if I'm the bad guy?_

Sure, before he committed himself to Carlisle's way of life, he'd killed lots of people. He had listened to their thoughts and crimes and meted out his own version of satiety and justice. But Bertram?

And why did she have to go and open her big mouth? "Edward! He killed someone!" Right there at the breakfast table. It was a miracle that in the last year, she hadn't let anything slip. Never said the V-word. Never let her father notice her strange, shiny scar from James' bite. Never talked about the way Edward had left his handprint on the side of Tyler Crowley's van, or the way Edward's siblings smoothed it out again that night. Certainly not the way Edward had scaled the side of her house like a spider and spent night after night in her room. Not even after her nearly-fatal trip to Phoenix had she exposed any part of the Cullens' secret. Now she felt sick. She didn't want Jacob to know what was in the woods because it would terrify him. It was the same with Charlie. And why was he waiting for Sam to slip up? Did _Sam_ know something?

All the secrets were so close to coming out. She didn't know if she could stop it from happening. A wordless, wounded cry burst from her chest, and she curled into a ball on the couch, shivering violently.

Edward.

Vera.

Bertram.

_ME._

It was hard to climb the stairs with hooves.

* * *

><p>Two o'clock.<p>

Three o'clock.

Four o'clock.

Five o'clock.

The hours passed like pages upon which nothing had been written.

* * *

><p>A woman's soft voice. A hand on her hair. Charlie had sent this person to check on her. She could tell because the voice said, "Charlie sent me to check on you." Bella kept her eyes closed and her head down. It wasn't safe to move. "Wouldn't you like to sleep in your bed?" said the voice. Someone was tugging on her, but her legs wouldn't work. "You're really sick, aren't you?" The hand in her hair again. Then a pillow tucked under her cheek. She heard the heavy slide of fabric as quilts came off her bed. Three of them were draped over her, but it wasn't enough. She shivered, but she tried not to let it show.<p>

"Angela still wants to go to the movies with you tonight. If you feel up to it. She and Mike should be here in about an hour."

Movies? She couldn't remember what that meant. Everything was dark. All she knew what that she had to keep still. When the voice went away, she risked one small movement: getting rid of the pillow. Then she could lay her face on the wood again. She breathed deeply.

The wood was ice. The ice was above her. The sun was under the ice. Above her face. Below and above. The sun was made of water. She was in the ice and on it. The ice spread through her mind like frost over a windowsill.

The woman's voice came and went.

A man's voice came. Tears. A man's hands gathered the quilts and pressed on her body, tried to lift her, but she found the energy to snarl and thrash. On the floor again, she pressed her face to the ice. Soon she would stop feeling. She wanted it.

The man was saying a word that sounded like someone's name. The voice was twisted. It choked. She was ready for it to go away. And then it did. Far away she heard the voice speaking again, asking someone to come.

Her breathing slowed. Her pulse slowed. A peace was coming.

She waited for a long time, and then a new sound came to her. A heavy breath. A thumping that came nearer. Long minutes of it coming. A door creaking. The labored exhalation of another man. And the friction of wool on a wall, a weight sliding to the floor. Breathing. Exhaustion. Pain. She found a place under the ice to hide. Then something hard pressed on her breastbone.

It was a struggle for death.

That, she knew at last, was under the ice, if she could only find it. A removal from the mind. From awareness. From hurt. Her ears were heavy, turning from side to side in the water. She wished she could swim faster, but her legs were so thin. Her hooves churned the mud beneath the frozen lilies, and she breathed out, over and over, trying to empty herself so she could sink better. She kept bobbing up against the ice above her head, looking through it at a wavering gray light. Best to turn away from that. On the bottom, everything was dark. She exhaled. Swam down.

The man's voice pulled at her. He was also pressing. Pressing something narrow at her chest. She began to slide over the ice.

Wanting and not wanting were forgotten. Instead there was need. It was the last emotion. She needed to stay. She swiped at him. Pushed back.

But the pressure on her chest was stronger. Rage, tears. She choked on her agony. The man was sliding her across the ice. Then across the floor. She slid till she hit something solid, and her quilts were torn away. When she tried to claw her way back, the man pressed harder. She was pinned to the baseboard beside her bed. Her mind formed words: Baseboard. Bed. No.

"No," she said.

"Open your eyes."

Some kind of stick was pressing on her chest.

"Open your eyes, god damn it. You stupid, sick-hearted girl."

The stick tapped her chest, then her stomach. It whacked her knees and shoulders until she cried out.

"Sit up."

She curled into a ball, but a handkerchief full of water was wrung out on her head, and she sat up gasping in a briny, salty puddle.

"First Beach," said Billy. "Harry says hi."

She opened her eyes. Billy was sitting on the floor beside her bedroom door, holding a cane against her sternum. When she leaned toward her spot on the ice again, he pressed harder. "Not so fast. How many stars are in the American flag?"

"Stars?"

"How do you spell 'Forks'?"

"Four?"

"What's my name?"

"Billy."

"What's your name?"

She blinked. She couldn't remember.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Hand. No, foot."

"Your hair is a snarled mess in your face and you look like shit. Does it bother you to hear it?"

"No?"

"Well, at least that's the same."

She leaned slowly forward and had one hand almost at her goal before he snapped his arm straight and pinned her against the wall again. Though his legs were sprawled awkwardly and motionless in front of him, his arm was strong and his black eyes were hard as flint. Long gray hair fell over his shoulders. He had a lot of questions for her.

How long, he asked, had she lain on the floor? Had it been only today, or many days? What was so appealing about that particular spot? Did she feel too cold or too warm? When had she last eaten, and what?

"Leave me alone," she groaned.

"No."

What had she been doing yesterday, he asked, right before this lethargy set in? She had to have the word lethargy explained to her. Had she been on the floor all night? Was she hearing any voices? Seeing things that other people could not see? Was she living in another place in her mind?

"Another place?"

"A better place. A worse place. A quiet place. Any place except where we are now."

"We are now."

"No, where are we?" He began asking her to name objects in the room. Slowly, a sense of indignation returned to her.

"Desk." She rolled her eyes as he pointed with his cane. "Window. Pencil. Pond. Ice. Sweater."

"Go back to the ice part."

"Ice. Swim. Down. Want."

He was much stronger than she would have guessed, pressing her again to the wall with the end of his cane. "No swimming," he said.

She took deep breaths. It was so hard not to reach for that spot on the floor, but whenever she leaned forward, it created pain where Billy was holding her back. He had braced himself against the opposite wall, his arm straight out before him with his elbow locked. Please, she whispered, but he only said no again.

She looked around the room for another escape. Night was coming. Behind her white curtains, the sky was a deep purple twilight. She saw the shadow of the trees. And in her room, the light overhead seemed almost too bright to bear. Even the gleaming hardwood hurt her eyes with its reflection. Her closet was open, with blues, reds, grays, greens, and whites all blurring together on their hangers She looked at her bed, stripped bare, with her pillow and pink quilts swirled on the floor, and she looked at the door, just behind Billy's left shoulder. She wanted to get away from him, but she also wanted to stay in this room.

His voice softened. He eyed the contents of her bookshelves and the top of her dresser. "Tell me. Do you have any perfume in here? Stale perfume."

"No."

"Do you have any old flowers?"

She looked around. There was a crusty mason jar of dried up daffodils on her bedside table. Dimly, she remembered a nice girl giving them to her. Billy released the pressure on her chest just enough for her to pick up the jar and hand it to him. He stuck his nose in it.

"No. It's something else. Have you got any old food in here? Under your bed? Forgotten toast. With maybe—" He paused, breathing deeply. "With maybe sour strawberry jam."

"No."

"Something's not right." Scooting carefully sideways, he reached her desk and picked up her hairbrush sitting on top. Then he slid it across the floor to her and made her count the strokes she needed to fix her hair.

Every moment felt like the present. The present was painful, and she couldn't imagine or remember a time that wasn't the present. "One," she counted. Moving her arm felt like work. "One. One." Her hair was brown. "One." There were no other numbers. But Billy began to talk to her, telling her that her friends were downstairs, waiting for her to come to the movies with them.

"One."

He named the friends. Angela. Jacob. Mike. Quil.

"Two. One, two."

The movies were in Port Angeles. This was a town, he told her, not far from here.

"Two."

Jacob had rebuilt his car. It had a name like an animal.

"Two."  
>The animal was a rabbit. The car was a Rabbit. The car was rusty red.<p>

"Three. One."

Red is the color of blood. It is the color of things that are alive, he said, or, if there is too much of it, of things that are about to be dead. "You've seen that before, haven't you?"

Pain snarled in her chest. "One, two, three, four, five, six..."

After ten minutes, her hair was shining and her face was covered in tears. Billy stopped pressing on her with his cane, and she crawled to him and lay her head in the crook of his elbow. His gray wool shirt felt rough on her cheek and he smelled faintly of wood smoke. She could feel him breathing.

"What's your name, honey?"

"Bella."

"What happened to you?"

"Edward."

"This is very bad, sweetie. This is the worst I've ever heard about. Something's wrong in your house, and I'm going to get somebody on it. But right now you have a job. Can you do something for me?"

She shook her head.

"I want you to think. Think about who is downstairs waiting for you. You've got to get up, honey, because you're breaking his heart."

"Jacob," she croaked.

"No." Billy put a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. "Charlie. You're breaking his heart."

Bella blinked.

"I'll tell you a secret. You think you can't make it another day. But there's something much worse than having a broken heart. It's knowing that you broke someone else's." His eyes were black and deep. "That's a pain that never goes away."

She smeared her hands over her cheeks. "Go get 'em," said Billy, and she stood shakily.

"You need a hand?" she asked. "To get downstairs again?"

"No. I have to rest. I'll call Charlie soon."

With unsteady hands, she put on her red coat. Billy had already closed his eyes and leaned back with his head on the wall.

Slowly, she descended the stairs. Her friends were in the living room. They looked worried. She stared at them, at these people in her house, waiting for her. Names returned to her mind, then feelings, connections. She felt herself filling up with air again. In the kitchen doorway, Harry Clearwater and Anne Weber were watching her. And Charlie was there, sitting on one of their wooden chairs with his elbows on his knees and one hand over his eyes.

Angela brought her a glass of water. "Are you okay? Do you still want to go to the movies with us?"

Swallowing the water felt strange. Her mind inhabited a body. She wasn't only a collection of thoughts and feelings. She was a body. Cool water moved inside her—because she was alive.

Jacob brought her coat. He looked just as worried as everyone else. One sleeve. Two sleeves. She put her arms inside them.

Charlie got up and put his arms around her. He held her for a long time, silent, swaying with her. Warmth returned to her from his chest. Then he stiffened, and Bella turned around.

Billy had appeared at the top of the stairs. He leaned on his cane with one trembling arm, and with the other he leaned against the wall, gripping the wooden railing. His feet moved with slow, dragging steps, and even in the dim light drifting upstairs from the yellow kitchen lamp, she could see how red his face was with the effort of standing. He looked at Charlie, and Charlie looked back at him with the kind of expression that made Anne Weber say that she needed to be getting home. She made Bella and her friends come out onto the porch.

As the door closed behind them, Bella heard Charlie say, "We need to talk." His voice was quiet but hard as a stone.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Dear readers, <em>**

_Thank you for reading. One more chapter is left. A reader remarked that the story didn't feel finished, and yes, that's true. Very true. There are so many plot lines that **one** story cannot hold them all. I have written an essay about this for Bella's Guitar Extras. Please check it out._

_In the meantime, I want to say that I've loved this journey with you all. You've helped me tremendously as a writer. I hope my style has improved as I worked on this. I certainly had a wonderful time talking with and learning from you all. Thank you all for your support and kind encouragement. Here we are at the end of a project that has been very important to me, and I'm so glad I could share it with you. Thank you._

_Soooooo... We are almost at the end. What do you think will happen next? Previews to reviewers. The LAST preview!_

_**Concerning this chapter:** What do you think will happen now that** Bella blurted out that Edward killed someone**? How do you feel about** Billy's advice** to Bella about broken hearts? How do you think **Billy and Harry will respond** to Charlie? _

**_Concerning the whole novel:_**

_1. Please let me know what you think about **Bella's growth **in this story, considering her state of mind (and heart) when we started._

_2. Let me know what you think about** Jacob**, too, as he changed and grew._

_3. I would like to know, also, what you think are **the main reasons, things, experiences, or people that seemed to help B and J change. **_

_The novel is, at least in my dreams, one of **hope and healing. I'd really like to know what you think about that.** And what are **your final hopes** for these characters as the last chapter comes to us? My hope is that I will satisfy some of them._

_Incidentally, please let me know where you are from. And hey, has anybody out there been to Forks?_

_I hope to hear from you, dear readers._


	34. Chapter 34 Heart's Blood

_Dear Readers,_

_You have now experienced approximately four weeks of Bella's life. I know. Can you believe it? It took three years for me to write this, and it might have felt like a long time for you, dear readers, wondering why Bella hasn't fully recovered yet. But all this happened between January 24, 2006 and February 20, 2006._

_I have written a post in _Bella's Guitar Extras_ about the ending... and other beginnings. If the ending of _Bella's Guitar_ leaves you with questions, please check out that post. This is the end of the novel, but not the end of the story._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-four<strong>

**"****Heart's Blood"**

When Jacob hit the first open stretch of the 101 at the north end of Forks, he dropped the Rabbit into third gear. A clumsier driver would have let it lurch into the new gear with the revolutions spiking, but Jacob double-clutched, synchronizing the engine and transmission so it dropped into the lower gear already revving at four thousand rpm. In the backseat, Mike was laughing for pure joy.

It was an eat-my-fucking-dust sort of feeling. The needle on the tachometer swung hard to the right, nearly into the red, then Jacob shifted to fourth and floored it out of town. When they hit eighty miles per hour, he skipped fifth gear and cheated to sixth. The Rabbit settled like a bird into a long flight.

This was the Rabbit's maiden voyage. Mike, Quil, and Angela were squeezed into the backseat, Bella sat in the front passenger seat feeling tingly and trembly all over, and behind the wheel, Jacob was grinning like— Well, like a sixteen year old with a killer car. He took one hand off the wheel and found Bella's, squeezing hard.

How strange, she thought. Life. Life with friends. The motion of a fast car, pushing her back into the seat. Jacob's energy and thrill. She looked at him, and she felt a tremendous, glowing feeling spread through her chest. What was that? It felt fantastic.

A car traveling in the opposite direction flashed its lights at Jacob, and he slowed to a perfectly proper fifty-five miles per hour. To Quil's question, he replied, "Cop ahead. Driver courtesy." Sure enough, a Washington State Trooper was parked around the bend.

At this more reasonable speed, Bella rolled down her window and stuck her head out. The wind felt cool and moist. She liked the way it whipped through her hair and made her eyes water. Even the skin on her cheeks felt the pressure of velocity. She smiled. It felt funny. Alive! Alive! The sensations of her body. Then she couldn't stop smiling and she lay her head on the lip of the door and closed her eyes.

"Bella, have you been drinking?" said Mike.

"Too much wind back here," complained Quil, so she rolled up the window and lay her face on the glass.

Angela was carrying a ridiculously large purse. Sitting between the boys with her feet on the hump between the footwells and her knees squished up, she held the purse on her lap. It was filled with snacks for the movies. Saves money, she said, compared to the concessions counter. Sweet, said Mike and Quil. They demanded that she show them the goods: JuJu Bees, Hershey bars, Good 'n Plenty's, Red Vines licorice, cans of Coke, and—best of all—a freshly baked loaf of her mom's banana bread. It was still warm.

"This is your grandma's recipe," she said, handing Bella a slice. She had already cut the loaf into five pieces. "Except your grandma never put chocolate chips in it like my mom does."

Heaven, thought Bella. Absolute heaven. The bread was sweet and rich, with walnuts and gooey chocolate chips. When had she last eaten? She couldn't even remember. The others could tell that she was ravenous, and they all—even Quil—surrendered their shares. She filled herself with warmth.

"Bella," said Mike, "are you high?"

"Yes," she said, which make him laugh. She took off her seat belt and turned around to look at them all. "You guys are the best." An impulse to crawl into the backseat nearly overtook her, but Jacob pushed her back into her seat and made her buckle up again.

She could hardly understand herself. There was probably a vampire in the woods right now. Two hikers had been shredded. Mr. Horowitz's room was a time capsule of horror. Vera—and she—had been nearly done in by one shitty, shitty, supernatural ex-boyfriend. And an hour ago, she had tried to drown herself on a hardwood floor. But now she was in a hot little hatchback with dear, dear friends, and the night felt electric. Could this last? She looked out at the black pines whizzing past. Probably not. It made tears come to her eyes again. Probably not, damn it, but she was going to enjoy it while she could. She leaned toward Jacob and pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

The car trip passed quickly. She enjoyed being with everyone. And Mike and Quil found they had a lot in common, talking about their difficult mothers, their fathers' interest in fishing, and their mutual hatred of olives. Black or green, they were all bad. Ruined meals. "I know, right?" said Mike. "Why do people put those on pizza?"

In Port Angeles, Jacob parked across the street from the movie theater. Bella got out and folded her seat forward so the others could climb out of the backseat. It seemed almost ridiculous, like a clown car, to have five people in there, especially when two of them were Jake and Quil, but the ride had been worth it. She could tell because of how proud Jacob looked. He was grinning in the glow of the street lamps. When he caught her looking at him, he scooped her up and twirled her around. "I'm so happy," he whispered. "It's almost like I'm free now. I mean, I don't want to leave, but if I did, then I could."

She had had no idea he thought of the car this way.

As they walked to the theater, Anglea pulled Bella aside. She was a nervous mess. "Do I look pretty?" she said. She had left her long, wavy brown hair down and wore tiny gold hoop earrings. Tasteful, thought Bella. Her coat, like Bella's, was a plain wool pea coat, but it was black with brown toggle buttons made from antler bones. "Hold this for me," said Angela, peeling off the coat. Beneath it she wore a green and black striped V-necked tunic sweater over a pair of black leggings. Her feet were clad in black ballet flats, and she danced around the puddles in the road with more grace than Bella could ever hope to have. "Quil's taller than me," she whispered. "Do you know how hard it is to find that?"

Bella, being barely five foot, four, didn't have that problem.

At the theater, the boys perused the bill. _Today and Tomorrow_ was still playing. This was the romantic comedy Angela had suggested to Quil a few days ago. Bella remembered that he had countered with _Face Punch, _and darn it, _Face Punch _was still playing, too. The poster in the lobby showed two angry-looking guys with sunglasses and enormous muscles riding motorcycles through an exploding building. Also playing was _Sun, Sand, and Sharks,_ a surfing movie. Its poster said that it was based on the true story of an Australian man who survived a shark attack and went on to win many surfing competitions. "_Inspiring..." _said one review. "_Riveting..."_ said another. A third review said, _"Hot babes."_

The five of them looked glumly at each other. There was no way this was going to work out for everyone involved.

Bella and Angela moved discreetly to stand near the poster for _Today and Tomorrow._ It showed a man and a woman riding in a hot air balloon over Paris. The man held a diamond ring behind his back, as if he would pop the question at any moment. The woman was smiling and holding a toy poodle.

"Help," whispered Angela. She kicked Bella's shoe.

"Ow!" said Bella. "I mean, Oh! I love poodles."

The boys glanced at the poster.

"I hope she drops that dog," said Quil.

Angela cringed, and Jacob took two oh-so-casual steps toward the surfing movie poster. When Bella frowned at him, he said, "Would you look at the other choices?" Mike and Quil were slapping each other's arms, talking about the stunts in _Face Punch, _so she reluctantly stood beside Jacob.

"Hot babes," said Jake to Angela. "Also, probably hot guys."

"In _Face Punch_," said Quil, "there's this guy who sinks a boat with his teeth."

Angela's "yippee" almost sounded sincere.

Since _Face Punch_ was rated NC-17 or R, or something serious like that—Bella didn't really notice—she and volunteered to go to the ticket counter on behalf of Jake, Angela, and Quil, but Quil said not to worry about it. Mike had him covered. Then those two bought a gigantic bucket of popcorn and laughed their way into the theater side by side. Angela glared at Bella and Jacob as if this were their fault.

"Come on, Jake," said Bella. "A little help here."

"Sorry," he said. "This is better than the movie."

It took some time to find a satisfactory seating arrangement. First, it was Quil, Mike, Jacob, Bella, and Angela in a line. By leveraging the attraction of the snacks in her purse, however, Angela maneuvered her way into Mike's seat between Quil and Jacob, and they ended up sitting Mike, Angela, Quil, Jacob, and Bella. Bella elbowed Jake and looked significantly at Quil, obtusely reaching across Angela to get at Mike's popcorn, but Jacob refused to get involved. At least, hissed Bella, try not to act like you're enjoying his idiocy. He replied that this was what life with Quil was all about.

To make matters worse, a young couple passed them in the aisle, seeking seats closer to the screen. The couple hadn't noticed them, but Mike sat straight up in his seat. He looked suddenly pale.

"What?" hissed Quil.

"It's them." The couple settled themselves a few rows in front of Bella's group. "It's Jess and that guy."

Quil looked the guy up and down. "You could take him."

"I'm not going to get in a fight. That's stupid. I just— Shit." He sank back into his seat. "Should I go and say hi?"

"Fuck no," said Quil. "You got a pocket knife? Let's go slash his tires." He started to get up.

"What's wrong with you?" Jacob yanked Quil back into his seat. "All you want to do is fight and break things lately. Fucking public menace."

People around them whispered, "Shhh."

The previews and advertisements for the snack bar were ending. Kevin Whats-His-Face put an arm around Jessica's shoulders, but she sat stiffly. Angela handed Mike some of the Red Vines as the lights went out and a sound like a thousand helicopters filled the theater.

Bella had never seen a stupider movie. After half an hour, no plot was apparent. After another half hour, it seemed like there _had been_ a plot that she missed earlier, but now it was gone. The main characters were a pair of frenemies named Trevor and Hook who ran rival motorcycle repair shops. When a third chopper shop opened in their derelict waterfront town, the former rivals joined up to run the new guy off. That's when they discovered that the new guy was connected with the Dutch tulip bulb mafia. Things got ugly.

"This movie's got everything," said Quil.

Motorcycle races: Check.

Motorcycle races at night: Check.

Motorcycle races at night on an exploding, sinking ship: Check.

And a guy with steel-plated incisors who gnawed through a ship's hull from the inside out, sacrificing himself to sink millions of dollars worth of red and yellow flowers. They looked like flames on the water as the ship went down.

Also, there was a gorgeous woman in a tiny blue dress who ran a florist's shop. Though they had been flirting tirelessly (and poorly, Bella figured) for a long time, the rival motorcycle repair shop owners could never get her to accept a date with either of them. When she got tangled up with the Dutchmen, however, they rescued her from the sinking ship (she had been bound in yards and yards of red silk (Why?)) and she then agreed to date both of them. At once. The three of them gathered up the red silk, the motorcycles, and bushels of sloppy wet flowers and went back to the florist's apartment.

_Bow chicka wow wow._

Bella had never been so uncomfortable in her life. She figured her face must be burning red, probably as red as Angela's, but it was impossible to tell in the darkness. She watched the screen until the clothes started coming off, hoping the shot would fade away, leaving the viewers with just a _suggestion_ of what was happening. But the movie was quite explicit. And loud. She covered her face with her hands. That left her ears exposed. In between the panting and grunting, she could hear Angela whispering, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, make it stop."

Beside her, Jacob was shaking with stifled laughter. But after only a few more moments, he pulled her into a hug against his stomach and curled around her. He was laughing so hard, and so silently, that tears were pouring down his cheeks. "My eyes!" he whispered. "I'm going blind!"

"This is horrible!" hissed Bella, hiding under his arms.

"I know! I wish I'd never seen that! Or that! Oh, God, no!"

"I don't feel so good," said Mike.

"It's because your eyes are shut," said Quil. "If you just watch, the sea-sick feeling goes away."

"No, I'm like, really sick. I think I'm sick."

"Shh!" said the people around them.

Jessica got up. Bella, with her hands over her eyes, only knew this because she heard Mike say, "Shit, they're leaving." She risked a peek at him. Quil had made a fist with one hand and was punching the palm of his other hand: _smack, smack, smack._

"Now's your chance," he said.

Jessica and Kevin passed them in the aisle, heading for the lobby. Mike groaned and put his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, but Quil shoved him out of his chair. "Move, move, move!" he said. "This is your girlfriend! He's stealing your girlfriend!"

"SHHH!" said everyone else.

Quil scrambled over Angela's lap and pushed Mike into the aisle. Bella was glad to have an excuse to get out of there, so she followed, and Jacob followed, too. Angela, however, seemed unable to move. She was leaning over the popcorn bucket, looking deep into it, and swaying.

In the lobby, Kevin was zipping up his jacket. Bella burst through the swinging doors of the theater and then stood there, feeling utterly ridiculous, as he leaned down to kiss Jessica. Jess seemed uncomfortable. She kept putting her hands on his chest as if to maintain distance between them. Why was she with this guy? Bella wondered. Did she like him or not?

"Get your hands off my friend's girlfriend," said Quil.

Kevin turned around. Bella, Jacob, Mike, and Quil stared back at him. Jessica looked at Bella and Mike. Her face flushed and her eyes glittered. Was it anger? Sadness? Relief? Bella couldn't tell. Kevin squinted at the three boys. He looked like he might laugh, but then he just rolled his eyes and put an arm around Jessica again. They headed for the door.

"You heard me, punk," said Quil. Bella stared at him. People only talked like this in the movies. It was too big, too brash. And he just kept going: "You candy-ass, Old Navy-wearing, freckled, dick-less..." He went on and on. His creativity, she conceded, was impressive.

"What?" said Kevin.

Quil shoved Mike at him.

Kevin was cracking up. "Is that that boy?" he said to Jess. "Your whiny ex?" Mike looked positively green. His eyes weren't focusing right, but Quil had an elbow in his spine, holding him up. "Look," said Kevin. "I don't give a fuck about you." He picked up Jessica like a sack of potatoes and tossed her over his shoulder. "I got this," he said, slapping Jessica's ass, "and you got that." He made an obscene gesture with his hand below his belt and walked toward the door.

It would have been over then if it weren't for Jessica. She raised her head and looked at Mike. He staggered forward, tapped Kevin's shoulder, and when Kevin turned around, Mike swung a hard right fist into his nose. It certainly didn't knock him flat. It didn't even make him let go of Jess. But it did look awesome, as Quil had predicted, as blood spilled down his face and over his white T-shirt.

Keeping one hand on Jess over his shoulder, Kevin used his other hand to shove Mike against the wall. He whispered some things that made Mike blanch. Jessica squirmed to get down, and Quil darted behind Kevin like a sidelines soccer coach. _Knee_ he pantomimed. So Mike kneed Kevin in the crotch. He and Jessica went down. Kevin rolled to his side, blood splattering from his face onto the carpet. He kicked at Mike's ankles, but Quil was one step ahead, motioning for Mike to jump. Mike dodged, stepped on Kevin's hand, and landed another fist on his nose. When Kevin at last got up, Jake and Quil moved to stand beside Mike. It was enough to end it.

Kevin cupped his hand in front of his face, watching it fill with blood. Cursing, he smeared it on his jeans. "Come on," he said to Jessica, but she didn't move. She was looking at Mike, and the world seemed to stand still around them. The yellow overhead lights brought out the golden tones in Jessica's hair, and the trodden lobby, with its worn red carpet and winding stairway to the projection booth, felt suddenly like the ballroom of a grand hotel. Kevin called Jessica a horrible name and left, but she hardly noticed.

"Jessica," gasped Mike. "I—"

But his words were lost in a spasm that wrenched his stomach. Clutching his middle, he darted into the men's restroom.

Jessica stared at Bella. She looked ready to cry, and Bella felt that she ought to do something to demonstrate that she was _not_ romantically involved with Mike. Should she stand closer to Jacob? Hold his hand? Quil helped her decide by jerking her into his arms and licking the side of her face with one huge, slobbery, fat-tongued stroke.

"Gah!" she spluttered.

Jacob shoved Quil. He used the word "mine" at least eight times as he wrestled him into the men's room. Over Jacob's shoulder, Quil winked at her.

Jessica looked confused, and then the theater manager stormed down the hall, demanding to know what was going on. Bella tried to explain that everything was fine, and when the manager left, she turned around and saw that Jessica was gone. Bella went into the ladies' room to wash her face. When she came out, Jacob was waiting for her on one of the plush velvet benches in the lobby.

"Mike's sick," he said. "Quil's staying with him."

What a night. Suddenly, she felt exhausted.

Jacob held out his hand. "How can I say this without sounding weird?" he said as she sat beside him. "I want to be the only one who licks your face."

It made her laugh. He put his arm around her and they leaned back against the wall. Her eyes were half shut. She wished she could sleep in his arms forever, like that night they went star gazing. Was _that_ weird? _I want to be the only one you look at stars with?_

It occurred to her then that for all her days of putting Jacob off, maintaining their boundaries, she had been the worst kind of hypocrite. She didn't want him like he wanted her, but she didn't want anyone else to have him either. What if she were in Jessica's shoes? What if she had to watch his friendship with some other girl and wonder, for months, what was going on? Just imagining it felt awful.

He had his left arm around her. She took his right hand and wove their fingers together. Neither of them had to say that they'd rather sit here than watch the rest of the movie. After a long while, Quil came out of the restroom.

"Mike's in bad shape. Probably the flu. We should go home. As soon as the movie's over." He returned to the theater. When he opened the door, Bella heard a funky bass line and a wailing electric guitar, and she figured the florist's apartment scene was still going on.

"Here's another weird thing," said Jacob. "I also want to be the only one you accidentally watch porn with."

"Gross!" She slapped his chest.

"Well, I guess we watched about thirty seconds worth. It was so bad."

"My eyes feel dirty."

"Ooh, Trevor!" he squeaked. "Hit me with the flowers!"

She looked at their fingers together. Slowly, she slipped hers away and turned his hand over, palm up. She stroked his skin with both of her hands. Wrist. Palm. His fingers.

So gentle, and so strong. They had been strong for her, she realized, for months. They had been holding her up, delicate as spiderwebs, when it scared her to have him close. Now she closed his hand to a fist and covered it with her own. Maybe she _didn't_ want to hold back anymore. But what did this matter, when there was death in the woods?

* * *

><p>On the way home, Bella rolled down her window half an inch and let the fresh breeze flow through the car. Behind her, Mike lay his sweaty cheek on the cool glass of his own window. In the middle of the backseat, Angela sat with her oversized purse on her lap. It was nearly empty now, and she wasn't looking right. She said she had probably eaten too much junk food, but Bella wasn't so sure. She looked clammy and pale. Her eyes were as glassy as Mike's. Behind Jacob, Quil was pouting. He hadn't wanted to leave before the movie was over, but just as Mike had emerged from the men's room, Angela crept into the lobby, too, saying that she didn't feel very good. Jacob had to return to the den of iniquity and drag Quil out by his ear. Now they all rolled south on the 101. With each turn of the road, Angela's head flopped from Quil's shoulder to Mike's shoulder and back again.<p>

Bella sat watching Jacob's profile in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. He drove with calm assurance, like a good shepherd taking queasy little lambs home. He seemed proud to be able to do it. _He likes this_, she realized. _Taking care of people._

At the same time, she realized that she'd like to take care of _him._ All the bad things that had been happening around here seemed connected. Sam, Billy. The malevolent presence in the forest. Embry's strange behavior. Her father's suspicions that Sam was hiding something. And his command that _she_ start talking. What was she supposed to say?

_Edward. He killed someone._

She wished she could unsay those words. She wished all of this would go away. She looked at Jacob, and she wanted to leave him out of all this.

Meanwhile, Sam had been appointed to the Quileute Tribal Council. Jake had told her this as they left the theater. It was infuriating. It was supposed to be Jacob's job. Now it seemed that Sam was telling his father what to do. Sam was taking over. And it _should_ be Jacob's job, she knew. He loved his people. He loved...

Bella pushed those thoughts aside.

"I don't think I can go to work tomorrow," groaned Mike. "Bella, can you take Saturday morning?"

"Sure."

"Angela, are you sick, too?"

"No." She lay her sweaty face on her purse. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I feel super. I'm having a nice time. Are you having a nice time, Quil?"

Quil scooted away from her.

"Do _not _barf in my car," said Jacob. "You just say so, and I'll pull over."

"I'm not going to barf," she moaned. "I'm having fun."

They were almost halfway back to Forks. It was ten o'clock, and a sharp, cold, silver sliver of a new moon had risen above the black trees. It chilled her. The closer they got to town, the more wretched and nervous Bella felt. Why? Why?

Was this the end? Bella had a terrible feeling that this was the end.

She couldn't hide anymore. She knew what was in the woods, and her father knew that she knew something. And there was something coming after Jacob. He had been bursting with intense emotions for weeks, joyful, miserable, irritable, and scared—almost panicked—on the night he'd chased her truck down the road and cut off big handfuls of his hair. Something was coming for him, and she could sense it the way she could sense a spider on the back of her hand. Almost imperceptible, but no less sinister. How could she help him? And what about _her? _ When she closed her eyes, she saw Mr. Horowitz's photographs of the Culpeppers. The _Cullens_.

The road curved around Lake Crescent and back into the woods. As he navigated the turn, Jacob took one hand off the wheel to touch Bella's cheek, and the sudden heat from his fingers made her flinch.

"You okay?" he said.

"Are _you _okay? Jake, you're burning up."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're hot as a fever. Do you have a fever?"

"I'm fine," he snapped.

The flash of his temper made her flinch, too. She stared at him, but then a movement on the road caught her eye. She looked up just as a young, brown doe slipped out of the forest to cross the road. She was standing on the center line, her ears flicking back and forth in the headlights coming at her fast.

"Jake, look out!"

The tires squealed as he slammed on the brakes. Bella's body was thrown forward against her seat belt, and in the back seat, Mike and Angela lurched forward at a sickening angle from the waist. Quil's arm shot out to slow their momentum, and their shoulders slammed into his arm instead of their heads into the front seats. Bella pressed her hands to the dashboard, her elbows locked, screaming as the Rabbit slid into a narrow lane of gravel between the road and a ditch at the edge of the forest.

Jacob barely kept the car from fishtailing as the rear tires skidded wide to the right, spinning them so the car was almost perpendicular to the road. He gasped as they came to a stop, and in the headlights that now swung toward it again, the deer stood in the opposite lane, petrified but safe.

Bella was trembling all over. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you ..." Tears spilled from her eyes and she smudged her shaking hands over her face.

Then another car came hurtling around the bend. Frozen in two pairs of headlights now, the deer stood immobilized as the other car sped toward it. The driver slowed and swerved but couldn't avoid clipping the deer on its hind quarters. Tail lights vanished into the night as the deer staggered over the asphalt and into the grass at the edge of the ditch. Bella was already out of the car, running.

"No, no, no!" she cried.

The animal lay on its side, its legs kicking in grotesque, broken agony. The sound that came from Bella was no less agonized as she knelt in the wet grass, running her hands over the deer's side. It was hot and huge, its chest heaving, its heart beating hard beneath her palms. Again and again, it lifted its head, its mouth gnashing, and fell back to the ground.

"Help," she wept. "Somebody help her."

Jacob hurried to the deer's other side, dodging its thrashing hooves. "Bella, we can't help. Bella, come on, don't watch."

She lay her face on the deer's spasming side. Its body smelled like musk and earth. Again the deer tried to stand and collapsed. Crawling to its neck, Bella lifted its head into her lap as blood poured from its mouth.

"You're going to be okay," she sobbed. She could feel the hot, red rush of its life soaking through her jeans. Jacob tried to pull her away but she snarled at him as only an animal can snarl, cradling the deer's head closer, pulling it against her chest. One of its ears brushed her neck. She looked into its enormous, rolling brown eyes as its long lashes quivered and it made a wretched, broken sound like a lost child. She stroked her hands over its neck.

Its body shuddered, all over. The breath came and went from its lungs in long, whooshing breaths. Its legs stiffened, went rigid, then limp, and urine spread over its hind legs and white tail. It made one more broken sound, and then there was only the humming of the Rabbit's engine in neutral behind them.

Bella watched her eyes. The life in them sank far away. She watched it fade as her eyelids spasmed and water spilled over the tiny white hairs on its cheeks. The brown eyes turned glassy—then soft—then finally flat and dull.

She shook its head, stroked her hands over its ears. She patted its neck and put her palm over its black nose. She shook it hard.

"Bella," said Jacob softly. "Come away now."

But she couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. She looked at her flat eyes and saw the Cullens, her starvation, her fright and abandonment, her lost love, his betrayal, Vera, Bertram, and the hikers killed in the woods. It swirled in her like a storm and she felt herself sinking.

_Edward. He killed someone._

At the bottom of the ocean, a wreck was waiting for her.

She heard her father say, _He killed you, Bella. He's still killing you._

Then Billy: _Charlie. You're breaking his heart._

And Angela's mother: _You have a big heart. And sometimes that means it hurts big. But a heart like yours can love big, too. Don't forget that._

Her whole body tingled with death. Or something quite different.

"Bella...?" said Jacob. He was kneeling in the grass on the other side of the deer, watching her with a strange expression on his face. She thought it was fear. He began to creep backward.

_NO._

It was a word she should have said a long time ago.

She leapt over the body of the deer and tackled him.

They rolled into the ditch. Somehow she found his lips. They were warm and soft. She straddled his chest and pushed him into the mud with her hands on his shoulders. When she paused to fling her coat off, Jacob pulled away. "Are you sure?" he gasped. "Are you sure?" In answer she kissed him again.

He opened his mouth to her. Oh, he was so soft and sweet. She tasted his tongue, his lips, his chin and neck. She could feel him shaking with laughter, or tears, or surprise. Maybe all of those. When he could get enough breath, he rolled her over and knelt above her, weaving his fingers into her hair. He was humming into her mouth, his tongue so sweet, his teeth so gentle as he nipped at her lips. Pulling her hair enough to make her lift her chin, he buried his face in her hair, his breath hot on on her neck, and nuzzled her ears.

"Oh, God, Bella, I'm going to make you so happy. I promise."

She placed her hands on either side of his face and lifted herself to kiss him deeply. Turning him over once more, she drenched her fingers in the black, silky spill of his hair and pressed her face to its rich heat. "You're so beautiful," she murmured. "So beautiful, Jacob."

He stroked his hands over her back as she kissed him again.

The starlight was just enough to see the glistening in his eyes. "I promise," he said, with his lips on her neck. "I promise," with his lips on her cheek. Her forehead. Her eyelids. He sat up with her on his lap then turned her into the grass beneath him again, stroking her temples as he returned to her lips. Slowly. Sweetly. Gently.

The front of her jeans was soaked in deer blood and probably staining his clothes. And the back of her jeans, and surely the back of his, were cold, wet, and muddy from the ditch. She could practically feel the grass stains rubbed into her lavender sweater. But the skin of his collarbone was so warm and smooth. She liked the way it felt beneath her lips. In turn, he slipped a finger beneath the neckline of her sweater to stroke her own.

"Don't cry," he whispered.

"I'm not."

"Liar." He kissed her damp cheeks. Then he sat up and pulled her into his lap, kissing her hair and face and shoulders, holding her tightly.

They heard the Rabbit's horn and Quil appeared at the top of the ditch.

"I never knew road kill could be so romantic," he said flatly. "I'm very happy for you, but Angela just threw up on me and I want to go home."

"Noooooo...!" wailed Jacob. "My car!"

"No, my jacket. You better be grateful for my sacrifice. Red Vines and Coke, dude. These are the things I do for you because you're my friend _and_ cousin. If it was just one or the other, your car would be toast."

They tied Quil's jacket to the antenna and rode the rest of the way to town with it flapping from the car like a heavy, sloppy flag.

When they arrived, Quil offered to drive Mike and Angela home and take the Rabbit back to La Push so Jacob could stay with Bella longer. She said she'd drive him home, and Jake handed Quil his keys with instructions to be careful and threats to various parts of his anatomy if he wasn't.

"Yeah, yeah," sighed Quil. "Whatever." When they stopped at the end of Bella's block, though, he got out and gave Bella a huge, silent, and deeply sincere hug.

Bella and Jacob walked down her street hand in hand. They'd held hands plenty of times, but it felt different now. Their fingers braided together. Jacob stroking his thumb over the back of her hand. His reassuring squeezes, and the way he kept pulling her hand up to his lips. Spring peepers were calling, and they looked at the bright stars. She wondered what Charlie was going to say about this. Surely the change would be immediately obvious, and she could feel herself beginning to blush. But when they came to her house, the cruiser was gone. There was a note on the door saying he'd be at the station till midnight.

Jacob tugged her toward the porch swing, and they sat side by side, rocking slowly. Making plans. Tomorrow was Saturday. She would probably have to cover Mike's shift in the morning, and then she'd come and see him. Maybe they could make Billy invite Charlie for lunch so they could embarrass themselves in front of both fathers at once. Kind of like ripping off a bandaid.

"What do you think he'll say?" whispered Jacob. "He likes me, right?"

"I think he's been waiting for this for years."

Jacob smiled. She felt it beneath her fingers when she touched his lips. So full and soft. She touched his cheeks, too, felt his smile there as well, and then she touched his chin just under the curve of his bottom lip.

"This is for you," he whispered, kissing the pad of her index finger. "And this, and this, and this, and this..." He kissed her hands and wrists. Lay his cheek in her palm. She did the same. And then he tipped her face up to kiss her mouth again.

She had never felt anything like this. Never, never. His mouth was warm and gentle as he met her own, as he moved along her jaw to her neck. It made shivers run through her body. When she put her hands on his shoulders, her grip was so fierce that she pinched him accidentally.

He paused. "Is this okay?"

"Yes." But she had ducked her head. "It tickles."

He looked horrified. "Am I doing it wrong?"

"No! No, it's just—"

"You know what to do. Show me."

"No, I don't." She had to duck her head again and hide against his shoulder. "I don't know. I have no idea what I'm doing. This is good?"

"But I thought you and—"

"We didn't." She was glad it was dark so he couldn't see how red her face was. "He was— We never really— He just kind of _looked_ at me a lot. And I would try, but he—"

Jacob looked completely confused.

"I don't want to talk about him," she mumbled against his shirt. She twisted one of his buttons back and forth with her fingertips. "This is... You're... This is my first real kiss." Her face was burning. She could hardly believe she'd said that.

Jacob wrapped his arms around her tighter. He seemed to be shaking.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"With you."

"At me. So mean, Jake."

"No, at us. At how lucky I am." Very quietly: "I always wanted mine to be with you." Then he brushed his lips against her cheek, so softly, just for a moment. "There. I've been saving that for you since I was six years old."

She lifted her face and kissed him again.

This was _fantastic,_ she thought, half an hour later. Her hair was a mess and she was wondering if she'd need to wear a turtleneck sweater tomorrow. Jacob was in no better shape. "I'm so glad Quil witnessed this," he said. "He'd never believe me. You're making me look like hell, and he'd say I've been making out with a vacuum cleaner."

It was hard to destroy his neck when he made her laugh so much. _"Vrroooommm..." _she said, her face behind his ear. It made him laugh, too.

They took turns. "You smell so good," he said, his nose in her hair. On her neck. On the hollow of her throat. It felt wonderful to tip her head back as he kissed her there and she stroked her hands over his shoulders. And then she put her hands in his hair and pulled just enough to make him lift his chin. The skin on his throat was warm and soft. But after a while he said, scooting away, "Stop, stop, stop. I can't stand it." She couldn't let him get _completely_ free of her, though, so she kept her hands to herself and stretched her neck to find his lips again. She kissed him with the tiniest kisses she could imagine. Her tongue tasted the salt of a tear on his cheek, and discovering it made her tear up, too.

He put his arm around her shoulder and they rocked on the swing, listening to the crickets. _ Chirrup, chirrup. _And _Creak, creak._ She wanted to remember these sounds all her life. She swung her thighs over his and curled up on his lap, and as he pulled her closer, she tucked her head under his chin and told him how sorry she was.

"Why?"

"Me. Yes and no. Run away, run back. You just stood here, like a tree, and I was like a bird flying everywhere."

"It's okay."

She wanted so badly to burst into tears, but she also wanted to not ruin this. She put her hand into his again, weaving their fingers together, and held it to her heart.

"Wait," said Jacob. Frowning, he took his hand away and poked the end of her nose with his index finger. He poked her stomach, too, as if expecting his hand to go right through her.

"You're awake," she assured him.

He smiled. "I want you to drive me home now. But only so we can make out in the driveway."

She allowed herself another moment to hide her pink face on his shoulder before she got up.

Her truck was parked all the way up the driveway, in front of the garage. Hand in hand, they walked along the side of her house and over the damp grass beside the driveway. Charlie had left the back porch light on. Its yellow glow shone from the side of the house, making a semi-circle of light on the lawn. Beyond that glow, it was hard for her to see the rest of the backyard and the trees at the edge of the forest. Jacob, however, saw something. Pushing her behind him, he flattened her against the side of her truck. He made a strange sound. With her hand on the back of his jacket, she could feel a low vibration in his chest as three figures stepped into the porch light. Sam. Paul. And Embry.

Embry looked like he'd been crying. Paul pushed him forward.

"What's this?" demanded Jacob.

"He's as ripe as a peach," said Paul. "I can smell it coming off him."

"Emb?"

Embry held out his hand. "I need you to come with me, Jake."

Bella had a horrible feeling. Jacob was looking at Sam, and she could feel the hatred rolling from him. Sam stood silent, still, his jaw firm and his arms folded across his chest. He wore his black Forks PD shirt.

In a quiet voice that sounded far more frightening than any shouting could have been, Jacob told Sam that he was coming for him. He'd find out what was going on, and then he was coming for him.

"You'll find out," said Paul. "You'll find out everything." The way he looked at Bella made her more afraid. Embry turned and started to speak, but Paul stepped in front of Sam and said, "Thirty-two separate bags, Emb."

Sam said nothing.

It was a stand off, she realized. Jacob guarding her. And Paul, somehow, shielding Sam, whose stance was so stiff that he hardly blinked. "Now," Paul said. "Or I'll do it."

Embry snarled at him like an animal. "I'm going to walk him through it. And I want everybody out of his head."

"What about our routes?" countered Paul.

"Do it on foot."

Sam spoke then, in a voice that sounded cracked and raw: "You got till dawn."

Fear fluttered in her chest. "Don't go," she said, pulling on Jacob's jacket, but he only said that he'd call her tomorrow. He put his hands on Embry's shoulders and looked hard into his face.

"I _trust_ you. Whatever it is, I'll help."

Embry closed his eyes. "Come," he whispered. "Come with me."

The boys faded into the woods, Sam and Paul in one direction, Embry and Jacob in another. Bella stood alone in the porch light. Something was very wrong. Jacob was heading into the woods, and—

"Embry?" she called. "Embry!"

She raced over the wet lawn. At the forest she paused, her heart pounding, and looked into the dark trees. Miles and miles of loss and danger. But Jacob was out there. She plunged ahead, running blind, her hands before her face to push aside the branches. The leaves rustled and snapped, but her footfalls were silent, the moss on the ground so thick that it felt like she was running on nothing, and that Jacob had already vanished into nothing. She called and called his name.

This could _not _be happening again. She was losing him. She had found him tonight—found _herself—_and now he was lost. _She_ was lost. _No, no, no, no..._ She tried to run faster than her fear. Then warm arms caught her.

"It's okay," said Embry. He lifted her, walking back to her house. "It'll be okay."

"But the bear!"

"I won't let it get him." He kissed her forehead. He carried her all the way back home and set her down in the circle of porch light.

"It's not a bear," she whispered. "Embry, it's—"

"Don't say it. And I won't have to say it, either." His eyes were watering again. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry; I tried and tried."

She didn't understand. His tears made her afraid again. She pulled on his hand, but he peeled her fingers gently away.

"Trust me," he begged. "And forgive me."

That night, Bella burrowed under her quilts. Fear struggled inside her with another emotion. Jacob was in the woods, and she could only tell herself to trust Embry. She was beginning to think he had a secret of his own. At the same time, she felt a glow inside her chest, like a tiny sun. Never could she have guessed that Jacob's lips would be so soft. She thought of his beauty, through and through, and how much she wanted to tell him that she saw it. And she wanted to let herself feel—and show him—more of what she felt tonight. Part of the pain of the last few months had been keeping it in. Now her heart was so full. The feeling was strange and wonderful and scary and sweet and _good_. It was, she realized, called happiness. Opening her bedside table's drawer, she took out his lock of hair and slept with it on her pillow, her hand curled around it.

For Jacob, there was no path home. Deep into the ancient trees, he was learning a new kind of pain. A girl's secrets. A father's lies and omissions. A brother's unwilling betrayal. It took many hours. There was a lot of blood. When the sun rose, he came apart, his body breaking with his heart.

* * *

><p><strong>THE END<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Dear Readers, <em>

_Thank you again for being with me through this process. I am so thankful for every interaction with you, thankful for your comments and conversations and friendships. _

1. Could you understand why Paul made Embry do this? What do you think of Paul now?

2. Could you understand why Embry agreed to do it? And what do you think of him now?

3. What do you think about the deer and ditch scene by the highway? And your thoughts on Jake and Bella now?

_It is my hope that each person who reaches the end of this work—each precious (and persistent!) person who has read the whole novel—will say hello. Please participate. A maximum of 6% of the readers have said hello throughout this project. If you've read the whole thing silently, it would be a great gift to hear from you now. And for those friends who've been with me for years, please send me a farewell note. At least, it is farewell for now…. _

_Please judge me kindly. This is my heart's blood, too._

_Yours with great fondess,_

_AmandaForks_


End file.
